


An Ineffable Advent

by die_traumerei



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Affection, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Best Friends, Blood and Violence, Caretaking, Cherub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Drag Queens, Established Relationship, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Happy Aziraphale, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Major Character Injury, Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Modern Era, Other, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, Sexual Relationship, Snow, Snowball Fight, Violence, happy crowley, male-presenting aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 25,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: All my stories for soft-angel-aziraphale's Ineffable Holiday Advent Calendar!Some number of stories between 1 and 31, written for the season.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 150
Kudos: 102
Collections: An Ineffable Holiday 2019





	1. Ice-Skating

**Author's Note:**

> So I says to myself I says hey, I did basically all of Whumptober, I think I'll just chill for Christmas, no need to do another monthly challenge!
> 
> Ha. Hahaahaha.
> 
> I don't think I'll get all the prompts -- I mean, I already haven't -- but I'll write as many as I can! Hope you enjoy, and happiest of holidays to you all.

Aziraphale watched the skaters race along the canal, cheering with the other spectators, though he himself knew no one participating. Well – or so he thought.

He’d come to Sneek for a little holiday, and because it had been so long since he was in this part of the world. It was deep winter, one of those times in which spring, let alone summer, seems impossible to even imagine. And so humans, clever _clever_ humans had invented things like mulled wine and hot drinks and festivals that required quite a lot of candles and fires. (Perhaps he’d helped out with a small miracle here and there, but no one deserved to have their house burn down, especially not this time of year.)

And they had invented ice-skating.

It took his breath away, to see how easily people glided over ice he so uncertainly shuffled over. How they danced with each other, and how _fast_ the racers were, and all from a bit of metal bound to their shoes! Truly, humans were wonderful. Truly, the world was at its best, here in Sneek on a bitter evening in 1697 (or some year close to that, and that was good enough for him), with a mug of something hot and good in his hands.

“Aziraphale!”

Oh, he knew that voice – and there could be only one being who knew _that_ name.

The race had ended while Aziraphale was pondering, and the participants were breaking up, the canal becoming a spot for more leisurely skating. And it was only now that he’d seen a dark figure, in dark glasses, cutting his way through the crowds.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale greeted him warmly – his old hereditary enemy was always a welcome sight, and one that came not nearly enough, he sometimes thought. “My dear boy, whatever are you doing here?”

“Coming in second in the race?”

Aziraphale laughed as Crowley came to a stop with a flourish beside him. Show-off demon.

Handsome demon.

“I thought you hated the cold,” Aziraphale said, and touched Crowley’s elbow. There. He’d be warm enough the whole night long.

“Oh. Thank you for that.” Crowley looked a little startled (for Aziraphale could read his expressions without seeing his eyes, and had been able to for quite a long time now), and flashed the angel a smile. “I do. But it’s all right like this. If you keep moving. Not skating?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”

“Nonsense,” Crowley said, and snapped his fingers. Aziraphale’s warm drink was temporarily relocated someplace where it would be unnoticed and kept warm, and two shining silver skates appeared on his shoes.

“Crowley!” The sudden change in height startled him, and Aziraphale flailed a little, only to be caught, of course, by Crowley’s strong hands.

“Easy. This is easy,” Crowley promised. He took both of Aziraphale’s hands in his, and started to skate backwards slowly, aiming for a little clear patch of ice where they could practice. “Bend your knees just a little, it’ll be easier to balance. That’s it. No, no, just hold on, you’ve got to get used to the feeling of the ice, I have you. I promise, angel, this is fun.”

“As you say,” Aziraphale said through gritted teeth. The ice was far bumpier than it looked, and of course Crowley was so graceful and skilful and he was a lump on some jumped-up knives.

“Oi. Look at me.” Crowley brought them to a stop. “Have I ever led you wrong?”

“Crowley, forgive me my indelicacy, but you are _literally a demon_. It’s rather your job description?”

Oh, he had made Crowley laugh. Throw his head back and _laugh_ , long and hard, and well, all right. If Aziraphale could make Crowley forget himself long enough to laugh, maybe he could skate too.

“You’ve got me there,” Crowley said, and took Aziraphale’s hand, gliding in a half-circle to stand beside him. “Now – good heavens, _relax_ a little. Look, here's how it is – you’re going to fall over. Everyone does. You’ll be fine, especially with all those layers of fine wool,” Crowley coached. “So stop being afraid of falling, because you're going to. You don’t even have to worry about breaking anything, so you’re already one up on everyone here.”

Aziraphale nodded and tried to relax. Permission to fail was…helpful, he decided finally. So was Crowley’s patient lessons in how to skate, pushing off with one foot then the other, the soft scrape of metal on ice surprisingly comforting. Surprisingly beautiful.

Aziraphale wasn’t exactly going to be entering a race anytime soon, and he was wobbly, and he tumbled over almost immediately, but he _did_ skate forward. And every time he fell over, Crowley was right there to help him up.

And when Crowley hit a patch of rough ice, or his hips just did a thing, and he was the one splatting on the ice, Aziraphale helped him up back onto his feet, proud as anything to do for Crowley as Crowley had done for him.

Eventually, linked arm in arm, they glided together through the crowds, laughing at their own silliness and the bitter cold of the night, and how lovely and interesting everything was. They skated to the edge of the crowd and a tiny bit further, before Crowley turned them around, not wanting to chance thin ice, and skated back, plunging them into the joy of the town again.

“Not bad, eh?” Crowley asked.

“I’m having an absolutely smashing time and you know it,” Aziraphale panted. They had raced each other for a few feet, and had tied precisely, and Aziraphale hadn’t even fallen down, and he was _extremely_ proud of all of this.

Crowley laughed again, and Aziraphale would remember the moment forever. Centuries into the future, in the height of summer when the world was heavy and slow and the sun poured over him, and he and Crowley were no longer enemies but their own side, and more than that, friends and lovers both, he would close his eyes and remember a demon on ice skates, laughing in the night on a frozen canal.


	2. Hot Coco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, neither Sasha Velour or I had any idea that *this* would be my artform she influenced, but here we are.
> 
> (The spirit of the piece, the particular reliance on Dame Shirley Bassey, and the best line in the whole thing all come from Smoke & Mirrors, which was exquisite.)

Anthony J. Crowley had seen a lot in his time. He had witnessed empires rise and fall, the small sorrows and joys of life, and the big ones too. He had seen doctrinal niceties flow in and out of fashion, and had contributed a few of his own, all whilst flicking two fingers at God.

But never, in all his infinite existence, had he yet witnessed this.

“Hot Coco?” he asked weakly.

“I think it’s rather clever myself,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, adding some glitter to his eyeshadow. A lot of glitter. To a lot of eyeshadow.

“It…is, actually,” Crowley admitted. “Fits you well. Oh, here, let me.” He dove at the chance to fix Aziraphale’s wig, glad he’d had the sense to go for a lace-front. “Oh no, you’ve got this all wrong. Have you got a wig cap anywhere?”

“Check the bag?” Aziraphale frowned a little. “Crowley, what if I muck it all up?”

“It’s drag, it’ll be part of the show,” Crowley said, effortlessly switching from slightly shocked boyfriend to extremely supportive stage…boyfriend, he guessed. “You won’t be the first person to lose their wig, nor the last.”

“You’re right, of course,” Aziraphale said, instantly calming and brightening. “What colour lip, d'you think?”

“Red,” Crowley said firmly, getting Aziraphale’s curls tamed and the wig something to hang onto. “It’s festive, it looks good on everyone, and it’ll be stunning with this hair.” A small demonic miracle had significantly upped the quality of said wig, because like _fuck_ was Crowley’s boyfriend going to perform in drag at a small community fundraiser in some ratchet-ass shiny polyester thing. Aziraphale had _standards_ , and so did Crowley.

“You’re so good at this,” Aziraphale said, when he’d finished his lips and was adding a little more highlighter, because one could never have too much shine.

“Ahh, you’re the one who makes a pretty queen,” Crowley drawled, and it was true. Aziraphale dragged up was _awfully_ beautiful. “I can’t believe you kept this a surprise for me, though.” Aziraphale was absolutely terrible at keeping things quiet, it was one of Crowley’s favourite things about him.

“Oh, well, you know. It’s a bit silly. They have _real_ queens at this thing, I’m just putting on a dress for fun –”

“Unh unh,” Crowley said, leaning over to tap the end of Aziraphale’s nose. “You’re a real queen too. Drag is intent, not how polished you are, angel, and you know it. It’s not exactly a strictly-regulated industry.”

Aziraphale smiled again, his shoulders easing. “Well, I was just…shy, I suppose. Awkward. I know you wouldn’t laugh at me, just, well.” He shrugged and looked at Crowley, a little helplessly.

“I understand,” Crowley said gently. “Well, I don’t, not exactly. But I get it, I think. Why you were shy about such things.” Drag, he was one hundred percent certain, was not sanctioned by Heaven. Far too fun and freeing for that. Far too beautiful and outrageous for those boring, icy creatures.

“Now come on, let’s get you cinched and into your dress,” he said, helping Aziraphale up. Shoes first, then corset, then the sparkly silver-white gown that cascaded over Aziraphale – no, over Hot Coco’s waist, her hips, her soft belly.

Crowley got his own coat on, so proud he could hardly speak as he offered Aziraphale his arm and they made the short walk to the community centre. Of course the angel glided perfectly gracefully in the tall heels, falling into his drag persona so that Crowley may have left the bookshop with Aziraphale, but he definitely arrived with Hot Coco, all silver-white curls and sparkles and a face _definitely_ painted for the cheap seats.

The centre was packed to the rafters, and there wasn’t even a sniff of miracle about it, and Crowley was so happy he thought he’d burst. He bought drinks for every queen and king performing, ran around backstage adjusting zippers and making last-minute mends or touching up a bit of powder here and there, more fully in his element than he’d ever believed possible. Hot Coco got one last pep talk and a blown kiss before the show began, and Crowley _shamelessly_ demonically worked a spot for himself front and centre.

There were definitely professionals, and he whooped and cheered them on and tipped lavishly as was right and correct, but he saved most of his ardour for Hot Coco, of course. Dame Shirley Bassey would not, one would think, inspire Crowley into screaming ’ _you betta work, bitch_ ’ at the top of his lungs, but somehow that was perfectly correct and natural. Hot Coco brought the house down and Crowley genuinely began to worry that he might discorporate from pure pride.

A few more acts and the show was over, and he raced backstage again to get his angel into his arms, whirling her around and kissing her with abandon, not like anything was going to budge that lipstick after some tips one of the kings had given her.

“Was I all right?” Aziraphale asked, giggling and holding on tight to Crowley, giddy with it all.

“You were perfect,” Crowley promised. “I love you so much. I’m so in love. What a gift you are.” He kissed Aziraphale, or maybe Hot Coco, again. “Do you want a drink? Let me buy you a drink. They’re counting the donations, we’ll find out how much they made soon.”

“A drink would be wonderful,” Hot Coco said, falling back into her drag self, regal as she followed Crowley out to the bar. She was gracious and sweet and took selfies with those who asked, and Crowley kept her well-supplied with water and drinks and adoring looks.

Unsurprisingly, it turned out that the LGBT centre had made enough money not only to host a Christmas dinner for the community they served, but would be able to make rent for the next year.

An extremely innocent-looking Hot Coco took her gracious leave, her also very innocent-looking boyfriend escorting her home while the celebration continued into the night.

Once in the safety and comfort of his bedroom, Aziraphale emerged as Hot Coco receded, makeup wiped off, shoes _definitely_ off, and Crowley helped him out of the gown and underthings, carefully putting them away for the next time. Aziraphale got into pyjamas and Crowley insisted on rubbing his feet, soothing away any tension the heels and dancing might have introduced.

“Crowley? We did very good tonight, I think,” Azirphale said lazily, as sprawled across the bed as he ever was.

“ _You_ did good tonight,” Crowley pointed out. “I just yelled a lot and bought drinks for everyone.”

“I specifically miracled a sum that was less than half of what they announced,” Aziraphale said dryly.

“Huh,” Crowley said. “Fancy that. Nightcap, angel?”

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, looking peaceful and sweet and very happy, and grabbing Crowley and kissing him senseless the moment he came within reach.


	3. Warm Blankets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What if Muppet Family Christmas, but with Crowley and Aziraphale and Victorian?

Aziraphale settled into his chair with a sigh. It was one of those ones with a very high back and the wings coming out the sides, designed entirely to catch and comfortably hold gentlemen of a certain age who had perhaps hit the sherry a bit too hard.

He had taken lodgings at a small estate in the countryside, pleased to be away from the bustle of the city for Christmastide for a change. Such things were well enough, in moderation, but he was looking forward to a nice, quite Christmas in the country. 1846 would be seen in with plenty of books and a good goose dinner and that was quite enough for Aziraphale.

And so he settled in the chair before a roaring fire, a warm blanket over his knees and his feet up on a small ottoman. There was a steaming cup of mulled wine on a small, ornate side table, which also held an oil lamp and a pile of his favourite seasonal literature. A small plate with a few biscuits also featured, of course. Wouldn’t do to lose strength in the depths of midwinter.

Aziraphale had just settled peacefully. It was raining outside, a friendly patter on the windows that made him very satisfied to be indoors and not out, and extra-grateful for the fire. He opened the book on the top of the pile and began to read.

Not ten minutes later, there was a pounding on the front door. It was a lucky thing, Aziraphale thought, that he’d settled in the front parlour, and also that he had hearing rather better than humans. It was a foul night to be out, and he might have missed the poor soul that needed shelter.

“Oh,” he said upon opening the door. “You. Crowley, what are you playing at?”

“And seasons greetings to you too,” the demon said, teeth chattering. “Aziraphale, can I come in and warm up?”

“Wha-? Oh, my dear, of course!” Aziraphale stood aside and let him in, startled to see Crowley soaked to the skin. “Crowley! You’re freezing!”

“T-tell me about it, angel,” Crowley said, beginning to shake in earnest.

“Well, we can’t have _that_ ,” Aziraphale said, and snapped his fingers. Crowley was dry in an instant, but that did nothing for the cold that wracked his too-thin frame. “Come, my dear, I’ve just the spot for you.” Hereditary enemy or no, it was just bad manners to not give his guest the best seat in the house.

“Sit there,” Aziraphale said, glad he’d put the blanket on the ottoman when he’d got up – it was fire-warmed, and would ease Crowley’s shivering. He touched his glass of mulled wine and filled it to the top, steaming nicely, and handed it to the poor demon. “Drink that,” he ordered. “It’ll warm you from the inside. Oh, you poor thing.”

“Th-thanks,” Crowley said, too cold and miserable to be anything but honest. “Ssssorry to drop in on you like this.”

“Don’t be silly, you’d have perished in the cold.” Aziraphale remembered who he was talking to. “Well, been quite uncomfortable, anyway. Oh, here, let me warm a shawl for you,” he said, taking his own. It was a thick, plain knit, and very warm, and he settled on a small stool by the fire, the shawl spread across his knees to warm it.

Crowley didn’t say anything, merely sipped his wine and absorbed the warmth of the fabric and fire, his clothes now actually helping to keep him warm.

Once the shawl had been helped along with a little angelic miracle, Aziraphale tucked it around Crowley’s shoulders, re-filled his wine, and miracled a second cup for himself. He settled back down on the stool, very comfortable by the fire and nearly at Crowley’s feet. Easy to see if he started shivering again, or might need anything else.

“There now,” he said, satisfied with a job well done. “No more frozen snake.”

“No more frozen snake,” Crowley said with a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He thought of his plans, a nice quiet solitary Christmas. It seemed less appealing now. “I mean. If you must.”

“I’m sure I’m imposing–”

“Oh, it’s no imposition –”

“I can go once the rain lets up–”

“Oh, surely that might take days?”

Crowley smiled, and so did Aziraphale.

“Please don’t flood the countryside, angel. If you’re truly sure it’s no imposition – I would be grateful if I could stay with you, at least until the New Year,” Crowley explained.

“No imposition at all,” Aziraphale said, ignoring Crowley’s words because he definitely would not _nudge the weather along_ just to keep his friend close. Beside, it was December in England. Two weeks of rain wouldn’t be terribly unusual, not really. “Plenty of room here for both of us.”

Crowley smiled, and settled back in the chair a little more. The pale cream of Aziraphale’s shawl was startling against his usual blacks, and, Aziraphale thought, rather attractive. “I should, uh, warn you though.”

“About what? Are you all right? Are you ill? Do you need anything?” Aziraphale, never a slouch at going from zero to panic, was really outdoing himself tonight. But Crowley had been so cold and soaked to the skin and it occurred to Aziraphale then why hadn’t he just miracled himself to a tropical island or even into a rain coat? “Crowley, what’s wrong, why can’t you do a demonic working? Why were you so cold?”

“Shh shh shh shh,” Crowley said, both hands up, gesturing to calm the angel. Of course Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes, but he could just _tell_ Crowley’s eyes were going wide. “Calm! I’m…fine. Now. I’m not ill.” He sighed. “I had my privileges revoked. For a fortnight.”

“ _What_? Why?”

Crowley scowled at him. “Why d'you think? I did something Hell didn’t like.”

“My dear!” Aziraphale touched his leg, and warmed the blanket anew. “Was it…it wasn’t anything…the Arrangement?”

“Oh, no, they don’t know about that. It was. Well. There was this girl. Living on the streets. It wasn’t right, Aziraphale! She was just a _kid_! And Azrael was so close, you know I can always feel him, it’s like getting hives on the inside of your brain, so I got her first.” Crowley sipped his wine. “She’ll grow up, now. Prob'ly be a hell-raiser, my kind just can’t look beyond their noses.”

“I’m sure she will be,” Aziraphale said on auto-pilot, because his heart was doing somersaults in his chest. Crowley was so _good_ sometimes, he just wished he could…see it. Acknowledge it. For goodness’ sake, he could probably teach Heaven a few lessons, a treacherous thought said, and Aziraphale firmly shoved it away.

“So, yeah. Sorry. Can’t help with much until the New Year,” Crowley mumbled. “Sorry.”

“Oh, dear boy. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. It’s as easy to make a dinner for two as for one. Are you sure you’re quite warm enough? Let me top up your mug. ‘Tis the season, after all,” Aziraphale said, wittering on with immense joy. The tables were turned, he could do for Crowley, and they were friends, of course. It would be unthinkable to not take Crowley in and make sure he stayed safe, through this vulnerable time. It was the virtuous thing to do, after all.

And it would be so nice, to have his friend there for Christmas.


	4. Holiday Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note -- I'm not 100% comfortable saying that Aziraphale is autistic in this story, mostly because I'm not, but I think you could read it that way. (And, equally, easily read it as him having anxiety.) I'm curious what your thoughts are, if you have any.

Aziraphale let himself into the shop, and not a moment too soon. It wasn't like the sign had magically turned from CLOSED to OPEN, but he checked it again and locked the door soundly and stood there in the dim, dull light that was London on a rainy December day. What made it through windows that were perhaps not _rigorously_ cleaned.

He breathed deeply, the comforting smell of the familiar store, of _home_. Vinegar-acid of books and paper, dust, tea, coffee, wine, all the joys of his life. The thick walls muffled the people and the traffic outside, taking it away from him and leaving the soft silence of a room full of soft surfaces. Even the floor was well-worn wood; soft in its own way.

“Angel?”

“Gyahh!” Arizphale startled, wings flaring up, his halo, his general _glow_ lighting up the foyer of the shop.

“Whoashit! Sorry! Sorry!” Crowley had flinched in the angelic light, holding his hands up and wincing away. “Thought I'd surprise you!”

Aziraphale snapped his light down instantly, so fast it actually hurt a little. When Crowley was safe, he put away his extra eyes and all the wings. “I'm sorry. I do beg your pardon, dear. I'm...I was just a little startled.” He twisted his hands and took a deep breath, picking up his bags again and going a little further into the shop, a little closer to Crowley.

“A _little_? I'm lucky you didn't light me on fire!”

“Oh, stop it, I would never do that!” Aziraphale swept to the back room. Honestly, Crowley was so, so... _dramatic_. He bustled about, putting some things away and putting the kettle on. Tea. Tea would settle him.

“Angel.” Crowley's voice was gentler now. “You're trembling. What happened?”

“Nothing at all,” Aziraphale said brightly. “Just a little holiday shopping. Any requests? I've got a lovely fresh tin of Earl Grey if you'd like a treat?”

“Earl Grey is fine,” Crowley said slowly, and dropped into his usual chair. “Shopping, eh?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said quickly, pulling down mugs for them. He _was_ trembling, but he was home now, where it was quiet and safe and not...blinky and loud, like the whole blessed world outside was.

He dropped a mug and it shattered on the hard table, and Aziraphale reminded himself to breathe. It was a broken mug. Easily cleaned.

“Here, let me.” Crowley's voice was so gentle, it hurt like a knife but also...Aziraphale could use some gentleness. He'd settle for not being pushed around, not having to dodge all those stupid _stupid_ selfish people who couldn't watch around them and had to be so _loud_...but gentleness would be so good right now.

Oh, bugger, his wings were back, half-hovering, shielding him from the world. At least they didn't hurt Crowley. At least he could not be an actively terrible friend.

“Go and sit, angel, tea'll be ready in a minute.” A hard, familiar hand to his back, steering him to Crowley's accustomed seat, and under Crowley's usual winter blanket, intended to cut down slightly on the whining about being cold. It felt like being wrapped up in love, when it was draped over his lap.

Aziraphale couldn't fully hide behind his wings when he was sitting, but he could shield himself a little. The blanket had a lovely, soft, knobbly texture, and he rubbed it between his fingers. It was woven, not knitted. Too tight to feel the individual yarns, but they were thick and thin, very soft. Nice.

“Got your tea, love.”

Aziraphale drew his wings back a little, to find Crowley kneeling before him, smiling up at him sweet as could be, his glasses off. He'd turned on some lamps and the room was suffused with a golden glow. Here, tucked away in the heart of the shop, everything was quiet except for the soft sounds of Crowley's breathing, and maybe a distant rumble from a lorry or two.

“Oh. Thank you.” Aziraphale's voice felt new and unused, even though of course it wasn't. He took the mug and breathed in the heat in his hands and the fragrant steam. “Thank you,” he said again softly. Crowley did take very good care of him.

“'Course, angel. Touch okay?” Bless him – Crowley always checked. Though of the two of them, he was the one who more often couldn't bear to be touched at times, and Aziraphale had learned to comfort with voice and presence.

Aziraphale nodded, and tucked his wings away fully. He had the blanket to shield him, and the shop as a whole, and of course Crowley, the most familiar thing in his life. Crowley took a seat beside him, and Aziraphale snuggled under his arm immediately, head resting on his shoulder. Good, Crowley had made tea for himself, too.

“Shopping was a little stressful?” Crowley asked kindly, and Aziraphale nodded, closing his eyes and sipping, the tea grounding him.

“I really don't understand why every single aspect of their lives needs to blink _and_ make sound _and_ have the volume turned all the way up,” he said, and shuddered a little. “I am never going to the grocery store in December again.”

“Uch, no,” Crowley agreed. “They're the _worst_. It's all a bit much, isn't it?”

“I don't _miss_ living in a hut in a village of twelve people and twenty-four goats, but I didn't have these...attacks then, either,” Aziraphale said sadly. “Am I not made for the world, Crowley?”

“Absolutely not. I mean, you are. You're perfect for the world,” Crowley tried to explain. “Getting overwhelmed – that doesn't say anything about _you_ , Zira. Just that you get a little overwhelmed.” He kissed Aziraphale's head, just over one ear. “Anyone who loves the world like you do – belongs in it. Just maybe not a shopping district during Christmas,” he admitted.

Aziraphale smiled, soothed by...everything, really. “Perhaps I'll only go for an hour or two, next time I have to do my shopping,” he decided.

Crowley nodded, and squeezed his shoulder. “I'll be here when you get back. Tea and biscuits and quiet,” he promised.

“Not too much quiet, I hope,” Aziraphale said softly. “I do love to hear you talk, you know. That's never too much.”

“You really have no taste at all, do you?” Crowley marvelled, and Aziraphale surprised them both by laughing.

“No, my love. I don't,” he said, and leaned in and kissed Crowley. A light kiss – he wasn't ready for _that_ much touch – but a thank you, and an I love you, and a promise for when he didn't feel so fragile.

And until that time, Crowley would hold him safe and still, moving quietly and gently, and Aziraphale could wrap himself in peace, shore himself up against the onslaught of the world.


	5. Tree-Trimming

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale said in a voice of extremely long suffering. “You make a very lovely garland.”

Crowley, who was a very long jewel-toned snake that Aziraphale was pretty sure was not an actual real species, flicked his tongue out proudly, and did a little bobbing thing with this head that was far too cute, really.

He was draped across the branches of their tree, which filled the rotunda of the bookshop. They'd traded off who hosted Christmas every year since they had both wound up in London; it seemed a bit silly to have  _separate_ trees and decorations and things, since they inevitably spent the day together.

It was, really, a rather charming effect, the glittering scales against the dark piney branches, and Aziraphale petted his tiny snakey head in gratitude. “Oh!” he said, and giggled aloud, reaching for a satsuma. Two, really, joined at the stems, perfect for putting up on a tree, and he gently balanced them across Crowley's body.

“Oops,” Aziraphale said, as the weight of the fruit made the snake sink rather precipitously, his body making a nice U shape. He may even have heard a little 'eep!' as Crowley quickly wrapped head and tail around branches, and glared up at Aziraphale.

“I do apologize,” Aziraphale said, and he did mean it, mostly. He moved the satsumas to another branch, of course, and petted the poor little snake. “I do hope that didn't hurt.”

It's hard to explain, and probably most snakes can't do it, but Crowley looked  _very pathetic_ in that moment.

Aziraphale knew when he was being asked to play a part, and this time he didn't even begrudge it. Crowley was perfectly fine and they both knew it, even as Aziraphale very, very carefully lifted him from the tree and settled him about his shoulders.

“Let me put a few more things up, and then we can have a cup of eggnog,” he promised. “It will be wonderfully revitalizing for you.” He wondered if Crowley would stay a snake – it _was_ rather cute watching him drink things that way, he got quite messy as he basically dunked his head in the dish of cocoa or whatever.

So it was this time, too, as Aziraphale poured himself a glass and Crowley a little saucer, doctoring them both with brandy, and they settled together in sight of the tree, enjoying their little break from the labour of trimming it. Crowley moved to shorten himself a little, and wind around the angel's arm as he shoved his little snoot in the dish of eggnog and drank lavishly.

Aziraphale kindly lent him use of a hankie so he could get the excess off of his little face, and then it was back to the tree.

“Are you just going to be decorative and not help?” Aziraphale scolded, as Crowley played with colour and size, winding up a deep gold colour, slithering to the very top, and taking the place of the Christmas Fairy.

In response, Crowley extended the upper half of his body, making a rather impressive spike.

Aziraphale sighed loudly.

Crowley grew in length, changing to a glittering ruby-red, and ducked his head down, nudging at the little felt snowman Aziraphale held.

“Yes? Oh! Oh, you are a clever thing,” Aziraphale praised. He gently placed the loop, intended to hold the snowman onto a branch, around Crowley's neck. Well, right behind his head. And watched him curve back up, beautiful against the dark branches, and place the ornament where Aziraphale would have had to get a stepstool.

The angel knew better than to do what he wanted, which was clap his hands and exclaim how nice Crowley was, getting the high bits of the tree. Instead he merely smiled and picked out the next ornament he wanted to go up high. “Show-off,” he informed his sweet demon boy, just to give him a little more cover.

Crowley hissed happily at him, and went back to decorating the highest reaches of the tree.


	6. Scarves

“Crowley, for goodness' sake, I can hear your teeth chattering!”

“'m okay,” Crowley mumbled. “Hey, look, there's one of those warming thingies.”

“What a coincidence,” Aziraphale said dryly, and marched him right over to the semicircle of...well, they looked a bit like thrones. Great heated chairs, with fur coats attached, so one could warm up and plunge back into the Weihnachtsmarkt without having to sacrifice toes. Or general comfort.

Aziraphale plunked Crowley down in the nearest seat and settled the furs about him, including pulling up the great hood. Perhaps a little more firmly than necessary, but the foolish boy _would_ go about and let himself freeze to death. Crowley liked to dress flashy, and Aziraphale was almost certain that it would have been possible to do that and also wear enough clothes to protect against a December night in Germany, but apparently not. 

He tucked the furs a little more firmly around Crowley, who gave a little squirm. “Angel, stop fussing. Warm up with me.”

“I'm fine,” Aziraphale pointed out. He was wearing a fine woollen coat and a thick hat. Leather gloves, soft as butter and lined in more wool and a voluminous cashmere scarf finished him off and kept him quiet snug against the cold. 

Crowley, meanwhile, was a streak of nothing in a leather jacket and not even a hat, and no wonder he was about to perish.

“Wait here,” Aziraphale said. “I'll be right back.”

“What are you planning?” Crowley's voice was muffled and he gazed up, the hood hiding his eyes – dark glasses, of course, here in public, and he pawed at it a bit, the long sleeves covering his hands.

Oh no. Oh no, Aziraphale would  _not_ think it was cute, thank you very much. Absolutely not.

“You'll see,” Aziraphale said, and fled, before Crowley could be _cute_ at him any longer. It was absolutely Not On, was what it was, not when they'd _just got here_ , and suddenly all he wanted to do was take Crowley home and wrap him in the warmest, softest blanket he could miracle up, and cuddle him close. Put on an oversized cardigan and let Crowley melt against the curve of his belly, the way he sighed and hugged Aziraphale around his waist and murmured something soft and sweet and only, only for Aziraphale –

Right.  _Focus_ . They were here to eat and drink their way through the Christmas market and maybe buy some more ornaments for their tree or if anything else caught their eye. 

Aziraphale debated buying one of the really tacky hats with the earflaps, or maybe a very fluffy pair of earmuffs, but getting a hat onto Crowley, ever since they'd gone out of fashion in the sixties, was like getting a cat into a bath. He opted instead for warm gloves in black and red and a glass of steaming glugg. Two glasses, actually. Wouldn't do to make the demon drink alone.

He returned to a thawed-out Crowley and freed him from the furs and the warming chair, pleased when he even deigned to put the gloves on.

The glugg helped a bit, but not enough, and Aziraphale could see the tendrils of cold already chilling Crowley. Poor thing – he did feel it terribly, and it seemed a shame he had to be so miserable when he enjoyed wintry things like this. Visiting Germany had been his idea, even.

Without a second thought, Aziraphale began unwinding his scarf and putting it around Crowley's neck. And lower jaw. And ears, somehow, before tucking the ends into his jacket. It absolutely did not go, being a soft cream colour, but it still carried the heat from Aziraphale's body, and would keep Crowley warmer than anything else.

“Angel!”

“Don't you angel me,” Aziraphale informed him. “You're cold, I'm not.” He turned up his collar pointedly. “Perfectly fine. Oooh, stollen!”

His distraction worked...well enough, especially since next to the stollen there was a stand that sold sausages in a bun with plenty of sauerkraut to go on top of them. And then another market with clever little wooden puzzles that they bought several of, to try and figure out later when they were back home. And then, oh, there were satsumas, and some of them had been peeled and the slices dipped in chocolate, and they were so lovely.

And so they made their way through the market, easing their way with plenty of glugg and lights and all the lovely things that could only be got this time of the year.

As they walked back to their hotel room, Aziraphale did not begin to get chilly. He hardly ever felt the cold anyway, and it was silly – he was so full of good food and hot, spiced wine, and a lovely evening with the person he loved best in the whole world and through all of time. It was very silly of him to shiver and pull his collar up higher. Such a foolish angel he was – and they'd be home quite soon anyway.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley's voice was gentle. Not teasing a little bit, which was Azirpahale's clue that he was...not doing something wrong. Not in a bad way. But that he was doing something that made Crowley sad, and it was usually something he'd learned wrong, from Heaven. Well, not wrong. A survival tactic, they agreed. But one no longer needed.

“I'm just a bit chilly, dearest,” Azirapahale assured him. “Nothing to fret about. I promise, love.” Usually calling Crowley 'love' got him some latitude, but not tonight. Bugger.

“Come here, you eejit,” Crowley drawled, and as soon as Aziraphale had moved within arm's reach, Crowley began to unwind the scarf.

“No! Darling, we're nearly home.”

“Not really. Now hold still.” Crowley carefully unwound half the length, and wrapped it around Aziraphale's neck, the soft cashmere instantly comforting and warming him. He was on Earth, and was so happy, and he was with someone who loved him. Of course he was.

He giggled when Crowley's solution forced them to walk with arms around each others' waists. “I see your plan now, wiley serpent.”

“To have an ounce of sense in my head? Yes.” Crowley gave him a little squeeze. “No need for either of us to suffer, Aziraphale.”

“As you say, my dear.” Crowley's thumb was rubbing against Aziraphale's waist, he could just feel it through the thick coat. He rested his head on Crowley's shoulder, and walked a little faster, looking forward to their temporary little home, cuddling in the warm indoors while the crisp, clear, bitter night sky danced above them.


	7. Candles

“Don't light those!”

Aziraphale paused, match hovering over the delicate tapers. “Crowley?”

Crowley cringed. “Sorry. Sorry, nothing, didn't mean it, forget I said anything, they're awfully pretty, aren't they, angel?”

Aziraphale shook the match until it went out and set it down, not missing how Crowley flinched when it rested against the wooden table. “Dear boy, what's wrong?”

“Nothing! I told you!” Crowley all but hissed, backing away. “I'll go. I have to. I'll. Get another bottle of wine from your kitchen! Yes!”

“But we've hardly opened this one,” Azirphale said to the thin air that had once held Crowley. “Hmph. Well.”

He lit another match and held it to the taper and  _oh_ . Oh, how very cruel he was. Aziraphale had just about accepted that perhaps he wasn't a bad angel. (He didn't think he was a very good angel either, but that was all right; those things weren't so important anymore.) But he was  _definitely_ a very bad friend. Boyfriend? Whatever he and Crowley were to each other.

Of  _course_ Crowley couldn't stand to see candles in the bookshop, not even safely far from...well...not very far from books, admittedly. But Adam had kindly placed fire extinguishers about the shop when he'd restored it! There was one right there, and Aziraphale had conscientiously kept the area around it quite clear.

But oh, Crowley, the poor dear. He had been the one to see this beloved place in flames. At least Aziraphale hadn't left a body behind to burn; that would have been beyond horrific.

Crowley came back with a second bottle of wine and Aziraphale swooped in.

“Oh, my darling. It's all right. No candles. I promise. No flames.” He tried to get his arms around Crowley, who wriggled away.

“I told you, angel, it's nothing. It's not important.”

“Well, it's important to _me_ ,” Aziraphale said. “I do beg your pardon, Crowley. I wasn't thinking.” He softened, tried to gentle himself. For a soft creature, he thought he was very bad at this, it was very stupid of him. “I'm sorry. I frightened you terribly. But it's all right now. Sit, and drink your wine, love.”

Crowley gave a full-body shudder, but he sat and sipped his wine. “'m fine,” he mumbled.

“Of course you are, dearest.” Aziraphale settled right next to him. Closer than he had for decades before; so close their hips brushed together. He laid a tentative arm over Crowley's shoulders, and was heartened when he melted a little closer. Gentle. Soft. Don't push, or you'll frighten him. Crowley had been a good teacher of patience, and Aziraphale tried to be a good student.

They sat comfortably in the silence for a long time, the muffled sounds of the city just penetrating the old walls. Aziraphale topped their glasses up, and Crowley moved right back under his arm again, his body hard and welcome against Aziraphale's. 

Gradually, he eased though, and halfway through their second glass took off his glasses. “I am all right,” he said. “Truly. Most of the time.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, and bit his tongue. Crowley would talk if he wanted to.

He didn't, though. Not for some time, but he nestled comfortably against Aziraphale. And when he did pipe up again, it was something interesting he'd learned about aspen trees, and he chattered so charmingly about it that Aziraphale was drawn in. Well, mostly he was puzzled because Crowley had somehow started in the middle of the interesting thing, and therefore it took four times as long to explain, but he caught up in time, and by then they were – well,  _them_ . The them they'd always been, chattering and meeting interesting fact with amusing anecdote, and round and round. It wasn't avoiding anything; this was how they'd loved each other before there was kissing involved. And after, for that matter.

All the same, when Crowley started to yawn and Aziraphale bundled them both up to bed, he made sure of a few things. First, that Crowley was snuggled firmly in his arms, his head pillowed on Aziraphale's chest. Second, that he was smiling and happy and content, and falling asleep thinking only of lovely things. And third, that Aziraphale would stay awake through the night, dreaming a little in the darkness and enjoying the peaceful hours, right there to wake him up should Crowley have even a hint of a nightmare. It was a quiet night, but then, Crowley had been right. He was all right; most of the time.


	8. Decorating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter -- along with, like, most of the way I deal with the world and why I love the holidays so much -- owes a lot to Hogfather.

“Rosemary for remembrance, oh, goodness, where did you find cedar! And hawthorn, and holly and ivy, of course. Crowley, we've outdone ourselves,” Aziraphale said, marvelling at the bounty before them. They'd split up going into the little woodlands near the cottage, having gained permission to plunder it for greenery. Of course, a vast, fragrant Christmas tree had been obtained a few days ago, and had pride of place in their sitting room, as yet untrimmed.

“The rosemary is from the bush in the conservatory,” Crowley confessed. “But it smelled nice, and anyway, it needed some trimming back.”

“It'll be perfect for a wreath,” Aziraphale decided, gently sorting out what they'd got. Wreaths for the doors and a garland for the stairs – they'd found a beautiful stand of pines that had boughs of just the right size. “You start on the popcorn, darling, and I'll find some needles and the cranberries.”

“On it!” Crowley gave him a cheerful kiss on the cheek, and they set about their tasks, quickly coming back together in the warm kitchen. Aziraphale produced a little surprise in the form of Christmas cookies and egg nog, and they munched happily while making ropes of red and white for their tree.

“Our tenth Christmas here,” Aziraphale marvelled. “How lovely.”

“Just a blink of an eye,” Crowley said, and winked. “Don't you go all maudlin on me, angel. I won't have it.”

“Not maudlin!” Aziraphale protested. “Grateful is all. And don't pretend you're not.”

“Certainly not,” Crowley said. “We got on the property ladder at just the right time.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and pointedly bit the head off of the little devil cooky. 

(They had the usual shapes, but also angels and devils, and those were his favourites.)

Strings of popcorn and cranberries down, they added those to the tree first, arguing cheerfully as they went. And, as they did every year, started with Crowley jumping up on Aziraphale and happily piggy-backing, stretched so he could reach the top of the tree while Aziraphale slowly walked him around, spiraling the pretty strands down until they could reach easily.

Aziraphale knelt a little, helping Crowley slide down to the ground, and helped himself to a kiss as well, as was also tradition. 

Once the tree was started, they split off again; Aziraphale to try and remember where he'd put the decorations away last year, and Crowley to start making the wreaths; he had a knack for it where Aziraphale didn't, so it had become his domain over the years.

So they criss-crossed paths in the cottage, each exclaiming over the other's work, and regularly heartening themselves with eggnog and more biscuits. Evening was drawing in when they finished – and never mind that that only meant that it was midafternoon, it was dark and that meant a little brandy in their drinks, and Crowley lighting the fire.

“Come here, darling. It's getting chilly.” It wasn't, but Crowley didn't have to be asked twice, happily planting himself in Aziraphale's lap and and getting ensconced in a snuggly blanket. Aziraphale settled him well and kissed him again, and smiled when Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale's chest. 

The house smelled of pine and satsumas, and the little electric candles shone sweetly from every window.

“It's so beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured. “I do love this season, Crowley.”

“I know,” Crowley said, and kissed the hard ridge of his collarbone. “I love you. And Christmas, I suppose,” he muttered, and Aziraphale laughed.

“I always liked spending it on Earth.”

“It's not nice in Heaven?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “A bit frantic. Dull. Well, you can't expect them to do something as frivolous as decorate, can you?”

“They never needed the ritual,” Crowley said softly. “That's why humans do this. They need greenery to remind them that spring will come again. And light, because there isn't any. Good food and love and and...and a scream against the dark. Something to say that the year is turning over, and it won't always be cold and dead. A reminder.”

“No, angels never did need that,” Aziraphale said soberly. “None of that mattered to us. Them. Jesus' birth – maybe a little. But not the...ritual.”

Crowley touched Aziraphale's hair, wrapped a curl around his finger and let it go. “I  _know_ it'll be spring soon. I understand how planetary tilt and orbits and things work. But I don't think I'd believe it, without this. Without something.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, and tilted Crowley's chin up and gave him a sweet kiss. “Even you and I, we need something. And.” He cleared his throat. “Ten years, Crowley. Ten years we've lived here, and ten years of Christmases when we were...what we are. I'm still...I'm not afraid you'll leave me. But it doesn't feel...real. Sometimes. This makes it feel real. Knowing that next Christmas we'll get greens together and you'll make a beautiful wreath, and you'll lift me up to put the star on the tree and then kiss me and make sure I'm steady on the ground again.” He smiled. “It doesn't even have to be every year. But knowing that there will _be_ a year where all of that happens. I can believe. I can trust that this...this won't be taken away from me.”

“Never ever ever,” Crowley said fiercely, and kissed him, and all was sweet and good again as they snuggled before the crackling fire and planned what they would do tomorrow.


	9. By The Fire

“Oh, that's beautiful!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Crowley had beachcombed some driftwood and added it to the fire, the embedded salts making the flames dance in strange, wonderful colours.

Crowley, kneeling by the fireplace, turned and smiled at Aziraphale. “Isn't it? Always did like doing this. But there – that'll keep for a bit. Come and join me, 's nice down here.”

“Don't have to ask twice,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, and settled quite comfortably right by the fireplace, retaining his perfect posture. In an act that was utterly devoid of surprise, Crowley crawled practically into his lap, situated so his bottom nudged against Aziraphale's thigh, his long legs folded up and his heels nudged against the other thigh, and he somehow folded his spine so he could rest his head comfortably on an angelic shoulder.

“You're warm,” he said, and Aziraphale confirmed again that he really _was_ too soft. Really truly, because he melted at those words and cuddled Crowley a little closer, fussing over how thin his shirt was. 

“Honestly, Crowley, I could read a newspaper through this!” Of course, a small miracle meant that the gossamer fabric would keep him as warm as a fisherman's jumper.

Crowley emitted a very contented sigh when he was enveloped in warmth, and not just from the miracle. Aziraphale was pretty much his height, but was broader. And softer. And all the best things...er. And seemingly would never grow bored of touching Crowley, or holding him, or kissing him while rubbing his back softly.

“There, love. That's better,” Aziraphale said softly, after he'd lifted Crowley a few inches up and over, so he sat more properly in his lap. “Floor's a bit hard.”

“So's my bum,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale laughed and pinched him lightly.

“Nah, just bony. I don't mind,” he added, just in case Crowley was going to do something really dumb like worrying that Aziraphale didn't like it. He had enough padding to not notice, and wouldn't have minded if he did. 

He'd picked this corporation out specifically, when he was a new angel just sent to Earth. It seemed very comfortable, and so it had proved, and he wondered, a little, if some part of him had known that one day it would be his greatest pleasure to hold Crowley and keep him safe against the cold and the world at large. The thought was very comforting; he had been made for love, as all angels were, but he'd got himself this very specific, personal love on top of it all. They had made something just for them, and he touched a few fingertips to Crowley's chin, turned his head, and kissed him softly because love was beyond words even for him just then.

Crowley seemed to understand; he folded himself impossibly smaller and closer, so Aziraphale could rest his cheek on flame-red hair, smiling into the fireplace which still danced with eerie sea-colours.

It was still cold the next day, and Aziraphale turned up the thermostat and built a fire against the snap of the air. Their cottage was nice and snug, but old buildings did leak a bit, and he was determined that Crowley wouldn't suffer from the cold snap one bit.

And he didn't, though the two of them stayed close by the fire all that day. Crowley settled on a cushion, his back to the warm tiles bordering the fireplace, and knitted. A little slow at it, he knew, but he was making a scarf for Aziraphale and insisted on nothing less than perfection. And even if his eyes were not always 100% at seeing details, he would get there eventually.

“Shall I read to us?” Aziraphale asked from his spot on the sofa. He'd pulled it a little closer, just in case Crowley wanted to join him, and so he could be that much closer to his sweetheart even if he didn't. “Something seasonal.”

“If you like,” Crowley said, because one couldn't be emotionally honest _all_ the time, it would kill a person. 

Aziraphale, of course, understood perfectly, and went to one of the bookshelves that lined the room, unerring in his choice. “The Nutcracker. You like that one.”

Crowley looked up, grinning. “Yes, please. It's  _weird_ .”

“Well, you're not wrong.” It _was_ weird; eerie and dreamlike, full of the terrors of growing up and sexuality and becoming a real person. No wonder they both liked it. He opened the book and began to read aloud. 

“'On the twenty-fourth of December Dr. Stahlbaum's children were not allowed to set foot in the small family parlor, much less the adjoining company parlor – not at any time during the day.'” Aziraphale read, plunging into the strange, bittersweet tale.

Crowley listened and worked on the scarf until his eyes started to ache and he'd made the same mistake three times in a row. It was all right, though – plenty of time to finish it. And next winter, if he didn't finish it this one; Aziraphale had more scarves than he knew what to do with, so he wouldn't go wanting.

(Also, he'd caught on the one time Crowley had worked and frogged back and reknit and reknit again until he was nearly in tears because the stupid bloody thing wouldn't  _work_ . 

The outcome had been absolutely terrible; Aziraphale had taken the knitting from him and tidied it away, and made Crowley a cup of tea and kept an arm around him while he drank it. And they'd had a very serious talk about how Crowley wasn't to harm himself just to make Azirphale something nice. About how he was only to knit if it made him happy, and to stop when his eyes ached or he got frustrated, and how Aziraphale wouldn't want to wear something that had caused Crowley pain or made him angry at himself. He had been so gentle and so loving about it. At one point, he'd gotten a little choked up, talking about all the things Crowley had done for him already, and it had been so completely awful that Crowley now stopped as soon as his eyes felt a hint of strain, in genuine worry that he'd have to have a talk like that ever again.)

He tucked his knitting neatly aside, quietly pleased he'd at least made a few rows' advancement, and settled by Aziraphale's side as he read aloud to them both. Crowley curled himself into a neat little ball, his head on the angel's thigh, and listened happily to the story of Marie and her Nutcracker Prince, in all its weird, dreamy twists and turns.

Aziraphale read through to the end; not a very long story, but certainly enough to take them through the morning and early afternoon. The sun hadn't ever really risen, and so its descent to the horizon wasn't much noticed. Crowley hugged himself a little tighter; he wasn't cold (thanks to a handy nearby blanket, angel, fire, and modern forced-air heating system), but he was suddenly, painfully grateful. He was inside in the warm, with a fire and solid walls and a roof, with someone who loved him. That wasn't a thing that had happened all that much in the previous six thousand years.

The wind picked up as Aziraphale read the last words of the story and closed the book. He set it aside carefully, and they sat together quietly, enjoying the crackle of the fire and the sound of the cold outside, and the two of them safely inside. Aziraphale stroked Crowley's hair, playing with the short strands, and Crowley fell into half-dreaming, warm and content and already looking forward to another cold night and day spent with his angel by the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've never read E.T.A. Hoffmann's original story, I genuinely recommend it. It's weird and beautiful and all about growing up. I have an old edition I was given as a baby with Maurice Sendak illustrations, and that's even more deliciously scary and strange.


	10. Mince Pies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a lil female-presenting Crowley for the holidays...

“I assume that's _your_ doing,” Aziraphale said in a tone of immense disgust, as he pointed to the small stack of mince pies. It was _August_. Of course he wasn't wearing anything as gauche as short sleeves, but Crowley was practically _naked_ beside him in that tank top and those heels and those very. Tiny. Shorts.

Right, focus,  _why were there mince pies in the shops in August_ .

“Oh yes, I got a commendation for that,” Crowley said happily. She picked up a box and added it to the basket Aziraphale was carrying, blissfully ignorant of the loathsome expression the love of her life was emitting. And, simultaneously, soaking in all the disgust and quiet horror of the shoppers around them, as the spotted the minced pies.

“I hope you know that is going _straight_ into the icebox as soon as we get home,” Aziraphale hissed at her.

“Of course, of course, wouldn't _dream_ of eating them now.” Crowley smiled sweetly, winked at the old woman who was glaring at her and her revolutionary costume for the day, and went tripping after Aziraphale to the checkout. They bypassed the self-checkout, where there was such a morass of misery and frustration, Crowley's hair curled of its own volition, and her cheeks were pink. Her eyes sparkled, though of course no one could see.

“You enjoyed that far too much,” Aziraphale accused as they made their way home.

“'m a demon, darling, it's what I do,” Crowley reminded him, and gave a happy little twirl down the pavement. “And I'm _very_ good at what I do.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, but you're awfully good at being...lovely,” he said. “Too.”

“Well don't tell the whole world,” Crowley told him, but she was cheerful about it. It was very warm and the Tube was...well, she actually hadn't had anything to do with any of _that_ mess, but she could definitely wriggle a little and bathe in the waves of low-level (and high-level) irritation that the city of London was giving off like it was the balmiest Mediterranean breeze.

Aziraphale simply rolled his eyes and followed her home. They were staying at her flat in Mayfair since it had air conditioning. (Or, rather, she had been willing to miracle such a thing, when Aziraphale admitted that he had no idea how to install it even by miracle, and anyway, what if it damaged the books, dear boy?) So it was into delicious coolness that they entered, and Crowley took pity on her sweetheart.

“Go get a shower or something,” she urged. “You'll feel better. It really is foul out there, isn't it?”

Azirphale, who wore no fewer than three layers no matter the weather, and had not knowingly publicly shown his forearms in  _several_ centuries, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and acknowledged that bathing might not be a terrible idea.

“I can't imagine I smell very nice at the moment,” he admitted. “And my shirt's all stuck to me.”

“You smell fine,” Crowley said, because for her sins she _did_ love him, and he _did_ smell fine. Good, even. Like home and comfortable things. “You know where the bathroom is, angel, towels are fresh.”

Aziraphale smiled, and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Crowley. You really are very good to me.”

“G'wannn,” Crowley drawled, and gave him a little push. “I'll have a treat for you when you're done.”

Aziraphale gave her a curious look, but left with another kiss to find his way to the rarely-used bathroom with the fancy rain shower and the beautiful tiles and the river-pebble shower mat and the Bluetooth speaker he did not even understand in the least, but which would somehow just  _know_ he wanted to listen to a little Schumann, at least most of the time. (If Crowley remembered to turn that on, anyway.)

Crowley did remember, and smiled to herself – the longer Aziraphale took, the better. Besides, the only dressing gown within reach was a very short one, and Crowley was going to enjoy the  _shit_ out of checking out Aziraphale's legs.

She had considered a miracle to speed things along, but no – really, this needed to begin from the beginning, which meant making the custard starter. She did freeze the bowl with a touch; who on earth had time to plan for ice cream a day beforehand anyway? Terrible thing. If it wasn't physics, she would have suspected her own side.

Crowley could always close her eyes and know where Aziraphale was, unerringly. If he was far away it was more general – north or south or something like that. But this close, she could feel him move about her flat. It was unspeakably comforting, and comfortable. Her best friend was right there, safe and sound, and she loved him. And he loved her.

And he was very predictable – he'd gone from the shower to the great plant room, probably spoiling them all absolutely rotten and she'd have to go double-time to whip them back into shape. And then to Crowley's office, where what books she had tended to live. A couple were ones Aziraphale had brought over – a sensible emergency measure. One or two she'd swiped from his shop to read herself when time allowed, and of course there was the atlas of the stars, carefully restored to perfection. She wondered which he'd pick to read, sat very straight and fussy in her throne. 

Crowley smiled to herself and chopped the minced pies and mixed them in. Not much longer now.

Of course Aziraphale's timing was perfect, wandering into the the kitchen just as she was scooping the ice cream into a bowl. Oh, bugger – he'd miracled his clothing clean and dry, or found something he'd left behind before in her closet, and there were no angelic legs on display. Well, she'd take care of that later. For now, it was time for a wicked smile and a kiss, and going into his arms for a hug.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, and kissed her cheek. “What are you doing?”

“Taste this,” she ordered, holding up a spoon. Of course, Aziraphale did; at least he could behave as expected _sometimes_.

“Crowley! That's wonderful! Have you tasted it?”

She shook her head and he gave her a very reproachful look. “Chef should have first taste,” he scolded, and one arm still around her, he offered her a small spoonful.

Crowley nibbled lightly at it, and then took a larger bite. It was just about acceptable, she thought, and said so.

“It's delicious,” Aziraphale said, helping himself to another spoonful. “I can't believe you made ice cream, you're a marvel.” 

Crowley snuggled close and basked under the praise. “'s'not hard.”

“So? It's wonderful. Just the thing for today.” Aziraphale looked thoughtful, and chased down a spoonful with an identifiable chunk of pie in it, and ate it slowly, that clever tongue at work. “Oh! The mince pies!” He laughed and kissed her. “It's still a sin, having them in shops this early.”

“Don't care,” Crowley said happily. “ Got you to eat some. _And_ enjoy it.”

“Yes yes, you're a very wily demon.” Aziraphale offered her another bite, which she accepted, and so they shared the bowl, standing in her kitchen snuggled together, comfortable even in the heatwave of August.


	11. Music

“Oh my dear. Thank you so much, it's absolutely lovely,” Aziraphale said happily, just after he set the needle on his new record and the first soft tones of the Procession could be heard. New to him – it was a little pre-Christmas gift from Crowley, a beautiful recording of Britten's Ceremony of Carols.

“Bit medieval,” Crowley sniffed, then gentled. “But yeah, 's nice. Glad you like it, angel.”

“Is he one of yours?” Aziraphale asked. “I don't think we got him.”

Crowley shook his head. “Your lot got Pears – so you had to have him too. Didn't need any kind of Orpheus situation, you know, and anyway irritating the shit out of Wystan wasn't enough to earn him Hell.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Oh, good. I'm glad they're together now.” He kissed Crowley softly, reminded of what it meant to be together, to be unafraid. 

As Crowley settled into his usual spot, Aziraphale puttered about, putting on the kettle and tidying up a few things here and there, just to give the dust someplace new to settle. He hummed the beats quietly as the songs cycled in and out.

“You ought to sing along. I know you know the words,” Crowley called.

“Can't,” Aziraphale called back from where he was putting books away.

“ _What_? Of course you can. You're an angel, you're not exactly going to be out of tune,” Crowley protested. “No false modesty, it doesn't suit you.”

There was a long silence from behind the bookcase, and Crowley felt something terrible in the pit of his stomach.

“Will you get the kettle dear boy?” Aziraphale finally called. “Teapot just needs filling.”

Crowley turned and took care of it, of course, filling the cheerful old teapot, the glaze crackled and familiar.

“Aziraphale?” he called after a few minutes of quiet. “Aziraphale, I'm sorry.”

“Beg pardon?” Aziraphale emerged, some dust on the tip of his nose but otherwise quite himself. “Oh, no, it's all right. I do apologize, Crowley, I just got distracted.”

Crowley touched his fingertip to Aziraphale's nose, miracling the dust away. “Sure?”

Aziraphale sighed. “Mostly. Sit and have a cup of tea with me?”

“First tell me you're all right,” Crowley said, voice gone tight with worry.

“Love. I'm fine. Nothing has changed about me from an hour ago,” Aziraphale said. He held out his arms and Crowley went in for a hug. Sure he was an anxious, overreacting, absolutely terrible demon, but also, could anyone blame him? He would absolutely believe that Aziraphale had just forgotten to mention something horribly important.

Or that all this good and wonderful life was ready to be ripped away at any moment.

Aziraphale was warm and strong, though, and Crowley breathed deep in his arms, and the fear seemed farther away. Aziraphale's hand rested on the back of his head, wide and warm and solid, and Crowley tried to let his worry drift away. He was all right. Aziraphale was all right, there was no need for this.

“Better?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley pulled away.

“Better,” Crowley promised. “Sit, I'll take care of the tea.”

It wasn't quite clear who was indulging who – maybe their indulgences overlapped just that perfectly – but Aziraphale sat quietly on the sofa until Crowley joined him, and they'd done the tea some justice. 

“I can't sing,” Aziraphale finally said, rather bluntly. “And I don't mean that in the way humans say it. I literally cannot sing.”

“Whyever _not_?” Crowley asked.

“It was taken from me when I was sent to Earth,” Aziraphale explained. “Angelic singing...well. It's not really safe for humans. Or other living things,” he said ruefully. “It wouldn't have been safe for anyone around me, had I forgotten myself and begun to sing. Even humming – I can, a bit. You've heard me. But not melodies, not really.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley said softly. “I'm so sorry.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I miss it. I won't lie to you. But it is what it is, and it...doesn't hurt me, not really. I'm not terribly inclined to sing Her praises, you know, and that's what – “ he paused, for of  _course_ in that moment the  _Deo gracias_ started up, the bright, frantic voices and the rough, violent harp.

Crowley bit his lip.

Aziraphale snorted.

And they both collapsed in giggles, setting teacups aside and arms going around each other.

“Such timing,” Aziraphale muttered, while Crowley just held him and laughed and kissed him when he got the chance.

“Humans've got the praise thing covered,” Crowley decided, and laid his hand against Aziraphale's cheek. “I'm sorry they took your voice from you, love. It's not bloody fair.”

“Who promised _you_ fair?” Aziraphale parried, and smiled sadly, and kissed him. “If that's what I had to pay to come to Earth, I got the better end of the bargain.”

“Shouldn't have to pay anything,” Crowley grumped. He kept his arm around Aziraphale and settled in with his tea once more, after topping the angel up from the teapot. 

“Hush, you,” Aziraphale said happily, snuggling – somehow retaining perfect posture – and listening to his new music as he sipped his tea with his sweetheart right there beside him. Any pain from not being able to sing, not being able to be a part of the music, was counterweighted by all of these things.


	12. Lights

_1944_

“Come in,” Aziraphale whispered, holding the blackout curtain aside, just wide enough so Crowley could slip in, and it could fall again, not a scrap of light getting through. 

This year, he'd put up a Christmas tree in the centre of the shop, under the now-covered dome. It was trimmed to excess, as much tinsel and as many ornaments as Aziraphale could fit on it. No candles, but with the lights of the shop on, it glowed and glittered. Perhaps there was a little angelic help too; anything to brighten the sad gloom of London.

“Happy Christmas, angel,” Crowley said, trying for a bit of cheer. He kissed Aziraphale hello, and there, that was a real reason to smile.

For his part, Aziraphale wrapped him up in a tight hug, releasing it only to check Crowley over. “Happy Christmas, love. All right, then?”

“Not a scratch on me.” Crowley kissed his cheek, then the other cheek, then Aziraphale's mouth again. He couldn't stop, and didn't really want to.

“Good demon,” Aziraphale praised, and held him tight just a little longer. Crowley had been sent...somewhere. Not even Aziraphale knew, and it was safest that way, but some of the worst bombing had happened while he was away, and not just in London.

“And you're safe and sound?” Crowley asked, one hand stroking Aziraphale's back, checking for anything out of place, any tender spots, even the lightest of bruises.

“Of course,” Aziraphale assured him. One more kiss, and they could both relax, a little at least.

“It's beautiful in here,” Crowley said. “London's bloody dark tonight. Rightfully so, but.” He shivered, and Aziraphale hugged him again.

“It's dreadful, isn't it?” he agreed. “It's frightening going out after dark, with the blackout on, and of course it gets gloomy so early.” He nodded towards the tree. “So I make as much light as I can in here, at least.”

“You did good.” Crowley touched the tip of a branch and smiled. “ _Trees_. God, angel. To spend time in a forest again...”

“Soon,” Aziraphale said. “They can't fight this war forever.”

“I hope you're right,” Crowley muttered.

“Come. I have a present for you,” Aziraphale said, gently tugging on Crowley's hand, leading him to his back room.

“Oh?” Crowley grinned, and visibly perked up.

It was bright in here, too, lamps casting a warm glow, and a few candles lit as well. Warm and cosy, and Aziraphale pushed Crowley to sit on the sofa.

“It's not much, and it's sort of a gift for both of us but, well. Here.” He handed Crowley a wrapped box, a familiar size and weight. 

Of course, Crowley tore into the paper gleefully, somehow creating a small blizzard around him from one small present. He slid the lid off of the box, and made a pleased sound. “Ice wine! Where did you dig this one up, Aziraphale?”

“That's my little secret, dear,” Aziraphale said smugly. “Shall we toast the night?”

“Of course.” Crowley chilled the bottle with a touch and Aziraphale fetched glasses. The wine was a beautiful golden colour and poured almost like syrup. Too sweet for most times, but it fit with the night, and the warmth and comfort of the bookshop.

They toasted Christmas together, as one ought, and sipped their wine, and traded toasts off from there. 

Aziraphale watched Crowley closely, but he was already relaxing, sprawling happily. Not quite the devil-may-care demon who had rescued him all those months ago, but getting there. The war would hurt anyone's heart, and Aziraphale knew that Crowley's was softer than he let on, and sometimes too tender and in pain because of it. So  _he_ was the one to toast the children of the world, who would make peace where there had been war.

They were quiet for a long time, after that.

“To the stars,” Crowley said suddenly. “No blackout can cover them. They're _there_ angel, on any clear night. We can look up and not be alone.”

“To the stars,” Aziraphale echoed.

“And to the lights here on Earth,” Crowley added quickly. “To. To all this.” He gestured around him. “All this beauty. It...endures. _They_ endure.”

“It's incredible, isn't it?” Aziraphale said. “To the stars, and to the points of light here around us.” He caught Crowley's eyes, and saluted him, and drank deep. The wine was honey-sweet and sharp, and he closed his eyes for a moment, fixing this in his mind. The stars, the tree, the shop, his own true love, all ablaze with light.

_Sometime after they retire_

“Oh, look over there!” Aziraphale pointed and grinned. “Four Father Christmases!”

“And a Mrs Claus. Always good when they remember the missus, though I have concerns about that ratio,” Crowley noted, as they drove slowly down the street, admiring the lights. “Though there's enough Frosty's to go around, I guess, so he won't get lonely.”

“Oh, you!” Aziraphale swatted Crowley lightly. “Stop it.”

“Shan't,” Crowley said with a grin. 

“You _would_ be like this,” Aziraphale grumped. “Besides, until you've had to share a bed with someone who is, for all intents and purposes, an actual block of ice--”

“I have _told_ you, I am _cold-blooded_!” Crowley protested.

“You are not _literally a snake_ ,” Aziraphale informed him. “Oooh, this one's all blinky!”

“Very nice,” Crowley admired. “It's Morse code.”

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale said, and slowly sounded out the letters. “H-A-P-P-Y-C-H-R-I, oh, you can work out the rest.”

“Now that's dedication,” Crowley said. “Bet it drives the neighbors insane, too.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Just drive the car, dear. I think the next street decorated as well.”

Crowley drove on, at a shockingly low speed too, but wouldn't do not to appreciate everyone's efforts. All that work and frustration and cussing and a single bulb going out and ruining the whole string and  _no clue_ as to which bulb it was. Crowley was in a state of bliss.

Not very much later, he drove them back to their cottage, admiring the way the electric candles glowed in the windows, lighting up their little home. The lamp just outside the front door was also on, and cast a warm glow around the now-dormant front garden. 

“It's not _very_ cold out,” Aziraphale said softly, and Crowley realized they'd been sitting there in the Bentley for some minutes.

“Fancy a walk 'round the neighborhood, angel?”

“Oh, yes! We ought to see what people around here are doing too!” Aziraphale answered very quickly – well, fine. Neither of them wanted the lovely night to end just yet. Not that their home wasn't perfect in every way, and it was quite nice to share it – just. It wasn't the same as all the pretty lights, blazing out in the December darkness.

It  _was_ a balmy night – relatively – and Aziraphale slipped his hand into Crowley's as they set off down their street. He saw Crowley smile by the light of a passing car, and paused, and went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Happy Christmas, love,” he said quietly.

“Happy Christmas,” Crowley told him, and shifted so his arm was around Aziraphale's shoulders, holding him close and safe. 

“Remember during the War?” Aziraphale asked, as they admired the more low-key lights their neighbours had put out.

“Everything was so dark,” Crowley agreed. “Except your bookshop. Always bright and warm in there.”

“Well, at Christmas, yes,” Aziraphale conceded, smiling. “It seemed...important. Especially then.”

“Got to have a light in the darkness,” Crowley said. “Otherwise, what's the use?”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale didn't need to say it out loud – they both knew what a metaphor was. What each was to the other. So it was enough to let the lights stay real – pretty points of colour against the December darkness, cutting through the long night and lighting it up, bright and unafraid.


	13. Victorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a sequel to [Warm Blankets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21707401/chapters/51777343).
> 
> Also, please picture Aziraphale looking like Michael Sheen in _Far From the Madding Crowd_ throughout this story, colour-adjusted as necessary. Honestly, I've never seen him looking cuddlier.

“There you go, my dear,” Aziraphale said warmly, setting down the tray. “Drink up, plenty more where that came from. I put down a healthy store at the start of the season.”

“It's only sensible,” Crowley agreed. “Just in case a poor peasant came by looking for some Christmas cheer. I'm sure that's why you've got a whole wine cellar down there. For the aid of the impoverished.”

“You can stop anytime you like,” Aziraphale informed him. “I'm _perfectly_ happy with a single nightcap and then taking myself off to bed.”

“You don't sleep,” Crowley said.

“ _To read_ ,” Aziraphale told him through clenched teeth. 

“Aw, you don't want to, not really,” Crowley said cheerfully, taking a healthy drink of spiced wine. “I've got a better idea.”

“What could possibly be better than _Le Livre_ _de_ _la Cité des Dames_ ,” Aziraphale asked loftily.

“Games! And this excellent vintage.” Crowley grinned. “And ghost stories.” He knew Aziraphale's weak points by now.

Aziraphale's face lit up, wreathed in the smiles Crowley privately thought he didn't quite have enough of. “I can do magic for you!”

“No!”

“Oh, come now, I'm much better than I used to be,” Aziraphale begged. “Look! I'll pull a coin out of your –oops.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale perform the most obvious palm ever known to mankind, and then drop the sovereign.

“Snapdragon!” he interrupted. “We've got to play snapdragon, all that lovely flame and alcohol and people losing any hair on their knuckles.”

“Oh, superb! And it'll warm my hands up and I'll be back in practice for magic in no time,” Aziraphale said happily, flexing his fingers.”

“As you say,” Crowley said quickly. “Have you got sultanas on hand?”

Aziraphale shrugged and snapped his fingers, and a plate piled high with not just sultanas, but nuts and candied peels and good things like that appeared on the small table between their chairs.

“Show-off,” Crowley said, but he smiled, because he'd seen the hazelnuts, which were his favourite. What a soft angel.

He kindly poured brandy over the pile and lit it with a taper, yelping and laughing when the blue flames went up a bit higher than he'd expected.

“Be careful, my dear!” Aziraphale was laughing too, and they both reached into the flaming pile, quick as anything to pull out little things to eat, once they'd stopped being on fire. The brandy burned an awfully long time, but Crowley didn't question it; they were having quite a lot of fun getting lightly singed and going for the juiciest-looking sultanas and the fattest nuts.

Their little snack properly finished off, they contemplated other parlour games, but it was awfully dreary playing charades with only two people, and anyway, Crowley always immediately got Aziraphale's word, and Aziraphale had never, even when Crowley had literally written it out on a piece of paper, gotten Crowley's. So that was right out, as was Animal, Vegetable or Mineral. Apparently after nearly six thousand years of knowing one another, two questions at most was all either needed to guess what the other was thinking of.

Aziraphale was getting a magic-y look in his eyes again, so Crowley quickly moved the night on to ghost stories, starting with one of his own invention that he was quite proud of.

“Right, so there's a manor. In Yorkshire. _Big_ spooky place, lots of eaves for wind to whistle through, hasn't seen a sunny day in centuries,” he began, waving his hands exuberantly to limn the boundaries of the manor house. “Usually cold and dark in winter, o' course. But one year there's, hmm, oh, a widower, right? Newly-bereaved. Can't bear to be in London for the season, loved his wife dearly and all that.”

Crowley wove his tale and, well – Aziraphale may have had many personal failings, like magic, but he made a wonderful audience, gasping in just the right places and even giving a small scream when the ghost first revealed itself.

“...and the house crumbled in on itself, taking its secrets to the grave,” Crowley finished, to rapturous applause from his companion. He took a small bow, and topped up their glasses. Storytelling was thirsty work, it turned out.

“Oh, goodness, I suppose it's my turn,” Aziraphale said. “Let me just add some wood to the fire, dear. Are you quite warm enough?”

“Fine, angel,” Crowley assured him. It was wonderfully cosy in their little sitting room, helped along by wine and the brandy-soaked treats they'd gobbled. There was a handy woolly blanket nearby, but even Crowley couldn't complain of the cold.

Aziraphale built the fire up nonetheless, and found them a small plate of buns, to keep up their strength against the winter night, before settling again in his chair, eyes shining. He clapped his hands, leaned forward, and in what he definitely believed to be a spooky voice, began his tale.

Crowley immediately recognized it as a shortened version of  _The Castle of Otranto_ , of course, but it was skilfully told, and he shivered and gasped and let himself get lost in Aziraphale's storytelling. Even the long digressions were, well. Not out of place, and goodness, Crowley hadn't known that about the nature of stone-carving and he  _definitely_ had missed many of the intricacies of Renaissance-era Italian inheritance laws.

It was quite late when Aziraphale finished his tale, just before midnight. They had moved through the wine cellar from whites to the lighter reds, and were now well into the rich, oaky wines that were nearly meals in and of themselves. 

There was a pause in their conversation just as Aziraphale's clock struck midnight; and it was Christmas Day.

Crowley went to the window to peer out into the night, and tried not to think about how very much he enjoyed being in here, with the angel. Certainly it was better than being out in the cold but, if he was honest, it was far better than being...anywhere else. Unless Aziraphale was with him there as well.

“Happy Christmas, dear Crowley,” Aziraphale said, joining him at the window.

“Happy Christmas,” Crowley said back, and smiled at his friend, and did the thing he would regret the most, far and away, for the rest of his life. It was Christmas, a time to be charitable and kind, even if one was a demon, so he thought he might take a stab at it. More fool he! 

“So, angel, where are those magic tricks you promised?”


	14. Christmas Pudding

“What on earth is that?” Crowley asked.

“The Christmas Pud,” Aziraphale said, in a voice more normally reserved for the highest holy relics.

(He had been there for the creation of many of said relics, usually by accident, so wasn't terribly impressed by them all told. Even the sword – well, at best it was a healthy respect, heavily tinged with a desperation to get rid of the bloody thing.)

“It's _July_ ,” Crowley said.

“Well, yes dear. You didn't think I was going to only start on the rum a few days before or something idiotic like that?”

“Wha?” _Rum_ drew Crowley a little closer. A lot closer. “Where does rum come into it?”

“You've never...no, of course not. I always made it, but it's hardly labour-intensive, you wouldn't have seen me...” Aziraphale shook his head and smiled. “Forgive me. Woolgathering. Come here, dearest, I'll teach you how to feed a pudding properly.”

Crowley drew close as asked – not that he ever really needed to be asked, it wasn't like being close to Aziraphale was a chore. Especially not in an English summer. It was cool and damp, and he slipped an arm around Aziraphale while Aziraphale explained the extended process of soaking a pudding in good rum, topping it up at regular intervals until Christmas night, when it could be lit with a thought.

“Is that why you nearly lost your eyebrows last year?” Crowley asked.

“We do not need to talk about that,” Aziraphale said loftily. “There, I'll check on it in a few weeks and add a bit more, most likely. You've just got to keep topping it up, and it'll be just right come Christmas.”

“Huh,” Crowley said. “Well, I'll be.”

If he was around, he helped Aziraphale feed the pudding, including once when he was a snake and thus pretty much reduced to supervising. To be fair, even when human, that was about all Aziraphale allowed him to do, but it was all of a piece of them living together. It was one of the things he'd missed before, like the way Aziraphale hummed along with music when he wasn't self-conscious. Feeding the Christmas pudding, and Sunday morning papers in bed and those days, rare but extant, when Aziraphale went quiet and lost in the past, all these things were new to Crowley.

He reckoned he had new things for Aziraphale, too. If he cajoled the angel out of bad memories, Aziraphale woke him from nightmares with the protection of his arms and soft kisses. He'd curl up in the safety of the dark night, his head tucked under his angel's chin, and apologize for being trouble. (Well, that had only happened once. Aziraphale's response made it more than clear that Crowley was no trouble at all, there now, just let me hold you, and remember you're safe. Crowley didn't let on that it wasn't himself he had nightmares about, but Aziraphale. It didn't seem pertinent, really.

Finally, though, December came around and they decorated their cottage and bought a tree together, carrying it home through chilly, damp streets under a sun that didn't seem to ever bother to rise, really. Crowley baked cookies (or tried to), and Aziraphale made hard sauce for the pudding. They bought gifts, and mailed those that needed it and wrapped the ones for each other.

“Are we trying to be human?” Aziraphale asked, as he settled a few parcels under their tree. “I mean...too hard?”

Crowley tilted his head. He was still wearing dark glasses from running errands. Aziraphale was wearing clothes he had purchased no later than 1917. And a bowtie. And had just miracled up some eggnog for them.

“Not too hard,” he finally said. “I don't think we're _trying_ , exactly. It just. Happened to us.”

Aziraphale sat back on his heels and considered this. “Hm. We were more different, in the old days,” he said thoughtfully.

“We're different now,” Crowley pointed out. “Except now it's called being eccentric, and makes us very English.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh yes. I can see that.” His smile grew as he looked up at the tree. “I like it here so much, Crowley.”

“I know, angel.” He came over to stand by Aziraphale, give him something to lean on, and rest a hand amidst soft blond curls. “So do I.”

A few nights later, they lit the Christmas pudding after a fine supper, and it was Crowley's turn to nearly lose his eyebrows, but it was more than worth it, bites interspersed with kisses.

“Well, now you know my secret,” Aziraphale teased. “Does it make it less nice, knowing how it's done?”

Crowley thought about being together, and helping feed the pudding. The heat of July, coming in from getting caught in a rainstorm in August. A week of sleepless nights in September, plagued by nightmares and comforted by his angel, the soft whisper-winds of October chilling the air, putting the garden to sleep in November. All those memories, pinned together in one rich, sweet flavour.

“No, love. Makes it better.” Crowley winked, and held out a bite for Aziraphale. “It tastes wonderful, as always.”


	15. Sleigh Bells

“Oh right,” Aziraphale said as Crowley paled. “Horses.”

Crowley gave a shudder.

“Well, _I_ always loved going on sleigh rides,” Aziraphale informed him. “Oh, it was glorious! Cutting through the world as fast as could be, racing through the woods, all those lovely things.”

“Angel,” Crowley said. “You melt down if I go over forty in the Bentley. I literally invented the oh shit bar just for you.”

“ _Must_ you call it that, dear?” Aziraphale sniffed. “That car doesn't have a sense of self-preservation. Horses do.”

“Not any horse I ever met,” Crowley muttered, and sighed when Aziraphale picked up the strap covered in sleigh bells and headed for their front door with a determined, decorating-for-Christmas look. “Are you really going to spend the next three weeks reminding me of getting jostled, thrown, dumped off, and having various sleighs overturned on me for _centuries in a row_?”

Aziraphale attached the strap neatly, and admired the effect. “You're very dramatic, darling, did you know?”

“I'll dramatic you,” Crowley muttered, and slumped deeper into his chair. Christmas with Aziraphale, a being who would _definitely_ choose to live in any scene depicted on a chocolate box without a second thought as long as he could bring a few cases of wine and be promised no visitors – well, it was proving to be an education.

He was annoyed enough to turn into a very small snake as soon as Aziraphale was close enough to coo and scoop him up, and let him curl around Aziraphale's fingers.

“Oh, you're always so precious like this,” Aziraphale told the demon who had brought sin into the world. 

Crowley preened and tasted the air, because it always tasted good around Azirapahale. Well, mostly. A snitty angel can make a snake sneeze, they had learned.

('Snakes can't even sneeze!' Aziraphale had said later.

'Snakes who are also demons can,' Crowley informed him. 'No more snuddles when you're in a Mood, dear.'

They had a cute nickname for when Crowley was a snake and wanted to be affectionate. They were so disgusting that they'd wound round back to being demonic/an absolute bastard, Crowley reckoned.)

“See, _I'm_ in a good mood,” Aziraphale pointed out, as Crowley grew a little bit longer. The better to curl his way down Aziraphale's hand and over his wrist, making himself into lovely jewellery. Aziraphale was already wearing pretty little diamond drops in his ears, and of course his signet ring, but Crowley made sure to make himself shine and catch the light.

He hung out on Azirphale's hand while he put up a few more decorations, getting himself out of the way when necessary, but otherwise adoring his love and almost certainly definitely punishing him for hanging up the reminders of Crowley's most hated animal.

He ended the day as a necklace, his head nestled in the hollow of Aziraphale's throat while the angel read  _A Child's Christmas in Wales_ aloud to them. He even did a deep Valleys accent, because Crowley liked the way it sounded like he was singing as he spoke.

Christmas Eve came, and they baked cookies, and made a nice lunch, and cuddled before the fire. They greeted friends and neighbours, and Crowley got ahold of the speaker system and ensured everyone was sent to Whamhalla. His shriek of victory – just about drowning out the wails of horror of his victims – was cut off when Aziraphale stalked over to the record player and very pointedly put on Nat King Cole.

When everyone had gone home, they shared a small dinner of leftovers and a lot of wine, and Crowley waltzed Aziraphale through their house, the two of them giggling and stepping on each others' feet, ending with Crowley inexpertly dipping the angel.

“Well, at least you didn't drop me,” Aziraphale said.

“Never,” Crowley said softly, and what was there to do, but kiss?

Christmas Day dawned warm and overcast, like the world was under a duvet, sleeping until spring. This seemed like quite a good idea to Crowley, but Aziraphale hauled him out of bed for lunch at their local and an exchange of gifts. For two beings who could miracle anything they liked into existence, they were surprisingly easy to shop for – Aziraphale only really ever wanted books, and perhaps a box of nice chocolates, and Crowley wanted anything very new and shiny. Or very old and shiny was good too. It was the shiny bit, really.

Crowley was already looking forward to taking down the sleigh bells the moment Boxing Day ended, and wondered if he could even get to it a bit early, when Aziraphale caught him on his way to the front door.

“I have one more gift for you,” he said, twisting his hands. “I have to take you there, though.”

“All right, angel,” Crowley said, a little surprised. “What's this gift, then?”

Aziraphale looked a little nervous. A lot nervous. “So. Ah. So, what you should know. I don't. It's something I love, but I don't know if you'll love it so you've got to tell me if you don't like it all right? I won't be upset I just want to...give it to you. And. And trust me, all right? I think you will like it, I just know you haven't in the past but I think I fixed that and--”

Crowley stopped the stream of words with a hand on Aziraphale's chest, just over his heart. “Shhh, angel. I'm sure I'll love it. And I'll tell you if I don't. Now what's this gift?” He grinned. “I like presents, you know that.”

Aziraphale gave a breathy kind of laugh. “I know. Right. Well.” He slid his arms around Crowley and hugged him close. “Close your eyes, love.”

Crowley did so, and heard Aziraphale snap his fingers.

The first thing he noticed was the bite of cold on his face. Only his face, though.

Aziraphale loosened his hold, and Crowley opened his eyes, blinking at the world around him. Stars wheeled overhead in a perfectly clear night sky. They were in a field of perfect white snow, with dark pines just about visible, shadows against that incredible sky.

“Oh,” he breathed, and looked around, not even minding the cold.

Aziraphale was next to him, smiling hopefully, dressed head-to-toe in white, looking a little like a creature out of myth. A fur-trimmed coat and leather gloves and the tip of his nose already going rosy in the chill.

“Azirapahale!” Crowley finally became aware enough to notice that they were stood on the front of a sleigh. It was small and fast, a pretty pale wood. There were horses hitched up but – Crowley squinted – they were...translucent white?

Aziraphale smiled shyly. “I used to love sleighing so much, Crowley. I wanted to. To share it with you. Give you a happy memory.” He chuckled softly. “Not that I didn't enjoy pulling you out of ditches, but I thought you might like this better. The horses aren't real, so you can't scare them. Please, love. May I take you out?”

“ _Aziraphale_. Yes. Uh. Yes, of course, oh, sweetheart.” Crowley sat down with a thump. He was in thick, heavy winter-wear, heavy wool and a fur-lined hood and thick mittens that meant he could still feel even his fingertips. “This is so beautiful, Aziraphale. _You're_ beautiful,” he added, because he was.

“Oh, stop, you.” Aziraphale looked at him critically and sat beside him. A heavy fur appeared across their laps, tucking itself neatly in at the sides, and another wrapped around Crowley's shoulders, ensuring not a breath of cold would touch him. 

“There are hot bricks at your feet,” Aziraphale told him. “But let me know if you get too chilly.”

“I don't think I can,” Crowley admitted. His clothes might actually outweigh him at this point, he was pretty sure.

Aziraphale smiled and took the reins, and with cheerful jingling, they were off.

Crowley  _knew_ Aziraphale was, at best, competent when it came to horses, but of course it helped that these weren't real, and he controlled them more with a thought, but the reins were an excellent aesthetic touch. And it was such fun to watch him show off, to guide the sleigh over the deep snow, the runners as smooth as glass as they went racing through the night. 

It was barren lands – perhaps fields in the summer, or grazing land, but now all was still and white with snow and frozen. It was a new moon, but the sky was so clear they could see by starlight. The world whisked by, and Crowley laughed as they skimmed across the land, moving faster than he could believe.

Aziraphale was grinning, and gave the horses their head – so to speak – leaning over to kiss Crowley now and again.

It was a magical night, full of the delicate song of the bells and the snap of cold in a forest and the singing of the sleigh's runners over virgin snow. They saw owls and deer and eyes in the night that whipped by too fast to know what animal they belonged to. There were shooting stars and impossibly tall pine trees that smelled like winter and promises when they cut through the forest.

They played for hours in the long night. Aziraphale checked in regularly that Crowley was warm enough, and was just as regularly reassured that he was fine, although another kiss wouldn't go awry. Wouldn't want his face to freeze, and all of that.

Of course, he got his kisses. It was only practical.

The sun wouldn't rise where they were, but it began to  _feel_ like morning, and the magic...wasn't broken, but you couldn't live in a fairyland forever. Aziraphale slowed the sleigh and brought them to a stop in a fragrant pine forest, and Crowley went into his arms eagerly, feeling Aziraphale's warmth and strength even through layers of fur and wool.

“I love you so much, darling,” Aziraphale said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Oh, Zira,” Crowley said, and the words stuck in his throat. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for sharing this thing you love with me. For being thoughtful, for taking care of me, for being in love with me and being my best friend. I don't deserve you, and I don't care, I'm going to take you with both hands and never ever ever let go.

He didn't have the words, but he'd find the way to show Aziraphale anyway. For the moment, he held on tight while the angel brought them home.


	16. Presents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note -- unlike most of my fics, Aziraphale and Crowley are very definitely allosexual in this one. Nothing is particularly described, but they definitely have sex. A lot. And there's intimations of bondage and domination play at the end, though again, nothing particularly explicit.

“Crowley, dear!”

Crowley stopped dead in the crowds – she'd know that voice anywhere, even slightly softened and a touch higher.

“Aziraphale!” And there she was, her dear angel, almost on the other side of the crowds. Crowley made judicious use of her parasol and thus cleared a way through the holiday shoppers, and embraced her friend in greeting.

“My dear, when did you get back? It's been absolute ages! Oh, you must let me buy you a cup of tea and hear all your stories.”

Aziraphale was flushed with excitement, her cheeks a high pink colour that set off her fine hat beautifully. She was dressed, as per usual, at least ten years out of fashion, but the old empire-waisted gown and overcoat suited her. (At least she was getting better at such things; she used to dress millennia out of style.)

“Of course, angel. Just got back today.” Crowley linked her arm with Aziraphale's and they plunged into the scrum again, fighting their way to a little teashop Aziraphale knew, just in the shadow of York Minster. (Though, of course, far enough away so as to not cause Crowley a jot of harm.)

Aziraphale ordered them a lavish spread, and insisted on pouring for both of them, as warm a welcome as Crowley could have ever dreamed of.

“Now, tell me _everything_ ,” Aziraphale said gleefully. “I do miss the Levant so.”

“As well you should,” Crowley said. “Oh, I took care of your blessing in Damascus, of course.”

“I felt it,” Aziraphale said. “Thank you, dearest. I would have loved to get away, but with the season as it is...” She sighed – she _did_ have to work so hard to keep people from buying books at this time of year.

(Crowley had pointed out that she could simply close up shop and be the one to handle their blessings and temptations, but Aziraphale had demurred, and Crowley suspected she just really, really loved England at Christmastide, and didn't want to miss a moment of it. After all, she'd clearly locked up in London and come north, for them to meet in York. Well, fair enough, and it wasn't any hardship on Crowley to take on both duties.)

“As you've said,” Crowley said dryly, and talk turned to other things – the interesting things Crowley had seen and done, the good meals Aziraphale had eaten, and the restaurants they would have to return to together.

“Where are you staying, then?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale named a hotel not far from where Crowley had taken a room as well.

“Oh, my dear, you can't stay _there_ ,” Aziraphale said when Crowley mentioned her boarding-house. “Not at Christmas. You must come and stay with me, there's plenty of room for us both. I insist.”

“You've twisted my arm,” Crowley teased. “I shall, then.”

“If you wanted _that_ , you need only ask,” Aziraphale said, and winked, and Crowley nearly spit out her tea.

“Angel! When did you learn about. Well. _Enjoying_ that sort of thing?”

Aziraphale gave her a pointed look. “I get  _many_ books in, my dear. On  _all_ subjects.” Her smile turned from wicked to sweet in a moment. “Do forgive me for shocking you. Only – I've missed you, darling.”

“I. Uh. Huh. I um. Yes. I missed you too?” Crowley tried for words. 

“I know, dear Crowley. Here now, you must try this cucumber sandwich, it's _divine_.”

Crowley nibbled at it as instructed, mind still whirling. Aziraphale had, somehow, in the previous few months learned about both bondage and flirting.

Well, possibly she'd known about the bondage first, that wasn't particularly new or revolutionary. But the flirting. Huh.

If it didn't make her heart ache a bit, Crowley would plan to be away quite a bit more often, if her return got her  _this_ .

After their tea, they walked to Aziraphale's hotel, cutting through the crowds. Aziraphale was not above using her generous hips to force a route through the crowd for them. Crowley just settled back and let herself be towed along, deeply enjoying one of her favourite sights: Aziraphale being forced to put up with all the humans she didn't really like all that much but was required to love.

They made their way through the streets without mishap, though, the day overcast and cold so that Crowley had started to shiver just as their hotel came into view.

“Just a bit longer, my dear,” Aziraphale promised, and hauled her in and up to the very nice rooms. Sure, it may have gotten her nearly discorporated once, but Crowley _did_ appreciate that Aziraphale had standards. Especially when she could take advantage of said standards, as she did just then, sighing in relief as the warmth of indoors enveloped her.

“Are you warm enough, darling?” Aziraphale asked, fluttering anxiously. “I ought to have got us a carriage, only it would have taken six times as long. Shall I draw you a bath? I think that's what I'll do.”

“Angel. I'm fine.” Crowley drew her close and settled her with a kiss, and unsettled herself at the same time. Kissing Aziraphale always threw her off-balance; it seemed like something she ought to burn for, the way holy water would. But she didn't; Aziraphale's kisses warmed, and comforted, and made her burn in...other ways.

She kissed Aziraphale again, and once more. Hungry, demanding kisses, fingers normally clever now fumbling at Aziraphale's coat.

A few buttons went pinging off into corners, necessary sacrifices for them reuniting properly, and Crowley getting her mouth on as much of Aziraphale's skin as possible. She had spent the first millennium of their relationship being as gentle and good as possible. It made her happy, and it still made her happy to be tender with her angel, and stroke Aziraphale with a feather-soft touch, and make her moan with only the tiniest flick of her tongue.

That the soft and gentle touches drove the angel  _insane_ was an unexpected bonus, but, well, Crowley  _was_ a demon.

She made sure to give Aziraphale plenty of what she liked best, too. Leaving bruises made Crowley a little queasy, but she could firm her grip, and scratch with the best of them, especially when it made her angel cry out with so much pleasure.

Their reunion was relatively fast, and not frantic, as such, but definitely...hungry. Which was probably why they wound up lying in a pile of discarded clothes, in the middle of Aziraphale's sitting room.

It made no difference to Crowley – she was snuggled against Aziraphale's wonderful softness, being held very carefully against any discomfort, her head pillowed on the most magnificent bosom ever to grace the world.

“Welcome back to England,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Mmmmnnnnn.” Crowley stretched happily. “I wouldn't have missed Christmas, love. Got to get my presents. What'd you get me, anyway?”

Aziraphale giggled. “ _Presents_ ? The six orgasms I just gave you won't be enough?” 

“Five.”

“Hmm. I counted six.” Aziraphale giggled again, her clever fingers scritching Crowley's scalp. “As to what I got you, you'll have to wait another day and you know it.”

Crowley made a whining sound.

“Well, what did you get _me_?” Aziraphale asked.

“What, I'm not good enough?”

Oh,  _bollocks_ . Crowley was the  _ dumbest demon of all time _ . She should know better than to give Aziraphale an opening like  _ that _ . Oh, Satan, there was going to be sincerity and waves of angelic love and--

“Frankly, you owe me an orgasm,” Aziraphale said. “I only had five. And you've just come from the Levant! I know you've bought me a gown, you always do. And some kind of exciting underthing. You're rather predictable, you know.”

Crowley's jaw dropped, and Aziraphale smiled brightly at her, and, oh. She didn't need anything in the world but Aziraphale holding her while she laughed until she cried.

“You'll find out tomorrow,” Crowley finally managed, because of course she had bought Azirphale a new frock, and a beautiful chemise and stockings. And a necklace. Maybe she  _ was _ predictable, come to think of it.

“I can take care of the orgasm now, though,” she offered, and of course Aziraphale, greedy thing she was, parted her legs, wrapping them firmly around Crowley's hips and practically causing a poor, over-travelled, over-worked demon to pass out. Not before she evened them up, of course, and an extra for good luck.

They spent the rest of the day together, and into Christmas Eve. At some point Crowley miracled all of her things to the palatial hotel room with a lazy snap, while she took her turn in the bath. Aziraphale had gone first, and Crowley had taken great joy in helping her bathe: washing her back and other very fun parts of her body. She would have gotten soaked if she hadn't had the good sense to already strip down, and it was easy to take her turn with a fresh tub of hot water that chased any hint of Northern chill away.

They exchanged gifts at midnight, as was their wont, snuggled together on the sofa. Crowley cooed softly over the jewellery she'd received, a lovely matched set of bracelet, necklace, earrings and hair-combs, all enamelled in deep reds and velvety blacks. Aziraphale had helped her put them on and they'd admired her in the mirror, her pale skin and red hair glowing in the warm light.

“You are so beautiful, my dear,” Aziraphale praised, and kissed her softly. She smiled, a little wicked, and held Crowley tighter. “Your other present will come later. When we're in bed,” she clarified, in case Crowley had lost the ability to detect what passed for nuance.

“Oh?” Crowley licked her lips.

“You like this, right?” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley realised she couldn't move her arms, and her wrists were pinned at the small of her back.

“ _ Oh _ ,” she breathed, and it was a lucky thing her angel was there to catch her when her knees gave out entirely.

“Soon,” Aziraphale promised. “I want to open my gifts first.”

“Right. Yes.” Crowley didn't need to breathe, and it was probably a lucky thing.

Aziraphale exclaimed over the gown, cream-coloured of course, heavy with gold embroidery. The chemise was very definitely see-through, and the stockings were pleasantly received as well with kisses and thanks. “I'll wear it all for you tomorrow,” Aziraphale said from where she was cuddled in Crowley's arms, a spoiled and petted angel. “We must go for a walk, and show off our finery. And the come back here, and you can take it off of me,” she promised.

Crowley pictured Aziraphale in just the chemise and stockings, and was glad she was good at the stain-removing miracles.

The necklace was simple; just coral and pretty gold beads, and Crowley was a little ashamed of it next to the glittering beauty she'd been given, but Aziraphale exclaimed over it, her eyes shining with real joy, and of course Crowley put it on her. It glowed against her fair neck, and lay in such a way that Aziraphale's collarbones begged to be kissed, so Crowley did.

“It's not much,” she confessed. “But I saw it at a bazaar and knew it had to be yours.”

“Oh, darling. I love it,” Aziraphale said. “I can wear it every day, and think of you.” She cupped Crowley's face in her hands. “You know all I need, truly, is you?” she asked seriously. “All I will ever need.”

Oh  _ no _ , no no no, they were not going to get soppy and make Crowley cry on  _ Christmas _ , it was too much.

“I know, love, feel the same about you,” she said quickly. “Bed?”

Aziraphale laughed, and when she smiled again at Crowley, there was an edge that made her heart beat faster. And other things happen. “Bed,” she agreed, rising and pulling Crowley up after her. “I've got so many other lovely things for you, darling.”

Crowley shivered with delight, and let Aziraphale pull her along into the bedroom, for the rest of her presents.


	17. Boxing Day

Crowley skimmed his fingertips down Aziraphale's back, admiring the silvery winter light on his skin. He wore pale colours so beautifully, and that included pale light, sun just cracking through the clouds. They had meant to go on a walk today, it being Boxing Day and it being rather the done thing to emerge, blinking, from a pile of empty sherry bottles and festive wrapping paper and perhaps a bit too much dinner, and go for an amble with one's family.

Well, they had the pile of sherry bottles and they had plenty of wrapping paper, they had shared a glorious Christmas dinner, and they were each other's family.

Just.

They had opted to have their amble in bed, so to speak. There wasn't much about it that was particularly athletic, mind. The two of them had taken a full hour to slowly undress one another, which was quite a talent when all Crowley was wearing was a very short, very lacy nightgown that just skimmed his thighs. At least Aziraphale's sensible flannel pyjamas had _buttons_. Pretty pearl buttons, that begged to be slowly slipped through the holes, revealing a little more pale, soft skin that needed to be kissed each time. They may not have been interested in sex, but they were _very_ interested in touching and caressing and kissing.

“I want to worship your body,” Crowley had said, his eyes gone dark gold in the early light, and Aziraphale had touched a hand to his cheek.

“Don't worship me,” he said quietly. “That's what _they_ would expect. Just love me, all right? That's all I ever wanted.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley had crawled up Aziraphale's body and wrapped around him tight, their faces so close the tips of their noses just touched. He had kissed his angel, feather-soft, and promised him love for the rest of their days.

“You can feel it, right?” he had checked anxiously.

“I can feel it,” Aziraphale had promised, his hand sliding up under Crowley's hem to caress his back.

Crowley couldn't, and knowing this hurt Aziraphale's heart, so he tried his hardest to work a little harder and _show_ Crowley how much Aziraphale loved him. Little gifts, sometimes, but better were times like these – long hours spent together, always touching.

“Lie on your belly and I'll rub your back,” Aziraphale said, stretching and sitting up when he'd thought Crowley might have got enough of caressing _him_ in. Turnabout was fair play, and all.

Crowley giggled and rolled onto his tummy, hugging a pillow to his chest – Aziraphale's pillow, of course, that he could rest his face in and groan when strong hands started to work his shoulders over.

“So lovely,” Aziraphale praised, and he kissed just below Crowley's neck. He'd get freckles there next summer, now. “I love you, sweetheart. I love your body. You're always telling me how much you love mine; I ought to return the compliment more often.” He smoothed his hands down Crowley's back, loving the lean lines of it, the way he wore it so easily. His spine, which went in ways human's didn't. Which sometimes ached when it remembered being a snake too well. Aziraphale soothed all these little pains away as well.

Crowley groaned at the little pop, and the heat of the muscle releasing. Aziraphale's hands were _magic_ , that was the only explanation. No one else had ever soothed him like this, easing his back, his hips, even his knees, gentling him into all but melting into the bed. And then crawling in beside him, both of them under the cozy duvet, their bodies pressed together skin to skin along their lengths.

“We can go for a walk tomorrow,” Crowley declared, turning and nuzzling his way into Aziraphale's soft arms. “Or day after. Whenever.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly. “Whenever we want, darling.” He kissed right between Crowley's eyes. “My dear boy. You're so beautiful in this light.”

Crowley smiled. “'s what I was thinking about you. You were made for it, all silver and white and gold.” He touched a pale blond curl, twirled it around his fingertip, and let it go, springing back into place.

Aziraphale made a face at him, and was so cute about it, it could make one scream. Or kiss him, as Crowley did then, shifting so that more of their bodies touched. Caressing Aziraphale was so good; how had he gone millennia without it?

Aziraphale must have picked up on his train of thought, because he held Crowley a little more firmly, and kissed him all over his face, letting him get drunk on being held and touched and adored. This always worked the best, to remind him he was loved. It had startled them at first, how an absentminded hug or kiss could make the demon collapse. But, gradually, these little jots of affection weren't surprise any longer. They were a touch to his waist or his arm, a kiss to the back of his neck or his cheek or his lips. A hug in passing, or cuddling on the sofa of a night. A touch on the back of his hand or the back of his shoulder to get his attention. How many times a day did Aziraphale touch him now? He didn't even try to keep count. Besides, all he had to do was ask for more, if he needed it.

So Boxing Day slipped by, a day of rest and quiet and peaceful things after the riot of Christmas lights and parties. So long silver sunlight moved across their bodies, marking time. So they stayed together, soft and tender and quiet. There would be other days for other things; for walks and snowball fights and visits to museums. This day, though – this was only for them.


	18. Snowman

“Oh my dear, look! It's snowing!”

Crowley ambled over to the windowseat and peered out past Azirphale, honestly expecting a bit of a flurry. This close to the sea, that about the most they ever got. He slipped a hand behind Aziraphale's head, scritching his scalp and incidentally getting his curls extra-fluffy as he peered out of the window.

“Blimey!” Fat flakes were cascading down from the sky. No gentle little flurry this – it was _snowing_. And sticking! Already the low stone wall that outlined their front garden had a layer of fluffy snow on it, no thicker than a clump of snowflakes, but quickly growing.

“I _told_ you,” Aziraphale said, a little fussy.

“When's the last time we saw proper snow in England, eh?” Crowley kissed the top of Azirphale's head, utterly untouched by his righteous angel.

“Been a few years,” Aziraphale admitted. His arm crept around Crowley's waist. “Not since we moved out here, certainly.”

They smiled at one another, and kissed, because building a life together was still new and amazing. Crowley sort of hoped it always would be.

“Not too cold?” Aziraphale asked softly, his thumb caressing, rhythmic over Crowley's waist.

Crowley, who wasn't stupid, looked down at his soft, chubby angle who was made for cuddling. Aziraphale was wrapped in an absolutely enormous shawl – a blanket, really. He was wearing his stupid reading glasses that _did_ make him look nifty, not that Crowley would ever say so, ever. There was another blanket pushed against the window, making sure not a breath could make it through.

Crowley gave a tiny little shiver.

“Just a bit. But I want to watch the snow,” he said. And gave another very tiny shiver.

“You know,” Aziraphale said. “You can just _ask_.” And he hauled Crowley into his lap, arranging them so that Crowley could see out the window but there was room for his legs without them pressing against said window and maybe getting a bit chilly from it. And of course the great shawl came around him too, via the medium of Aziraphale's perfect arms.

Crowley sighed contentedly – he hadn't been cold, not really, but now he was _warm_. And he had his angel's plump arms holding him steady on the best seat in the whole entire universe, which was Aziraphale's lap. Crowley rested on hand on Aziraphale's tummy, feeling warmed and loved and very, very spoilt. His brain skittered away from the thought that he didn't deserve any of this – so what if he didn't? He had it. And _Aziraphale_ believed he deserved it, and Aziraphale was...well, all right, he was dumb as a rock about some things. But maybe not this.

Minor crisis of self-belief over, Crowley settled in to enjoy his cuddles and the falling snow. Maybe he'd get lucky and get to watch some absolute plonker eat it on an icy patch before Aziraphale noticed.

The snow fell throughout the morning, slow and steady and coating the world in pristine silence. They watched it fall together for a bit, and then got distracted first with kissing, then with lunch. There were a good few centimeters on the ground when they agreed it was time for some fresh air and a little amble to the village green, just to see what was going on.

Sleepy village life wasn't, of course; the sheer number of clubs and committees and gatherings Crowley and Aziraphale participated in put a lie to that. And a surprise snowfall on a Saturday morning – of course their quiet little village would come alive.

There were kids running around screaming at the tops of their little lungs, causing Aziraphale to wince and sigh, and Crowley to immediately join in, screaming at the top of his _big_ lungs.

“We're making snowmen!” A small child of indeterminate gender, who was mostly knitwear, shrieked as they ran past.

“Snowmen!” Crowley ran after them, and to be fair, Aziraphale wasn't far behind. There wasn't enough snow to get a proper cartoony snowman going, but little snowpeople, just a foot or so high, were well within reach.

Crowley threw himself into the thick of it, the cluster of kids and parents scooping up the snow and patting it into shapes. A kind of blob with another blob shoved on top was about the best anybody could muster, but the snow kept falling and gave the world a happy, special air.

Aziraphale stuck to the edges, chatting a bit with friends and, at one point, kneeling down to help a very tiny girl, the granddaughter of one of their neighbours, pat her little snowperson into creation.

It was rather odd, the way a pile of appropriately-sized carrots appeared to be made into noses, and that's not to mention the matching pile of coal.

“Really, darling?” Aziraphale murmured as he drifted closer. “ _Coal_?”

“Got to have coal eyes,” Crowley said. “'s the rules. Besides, it's pretty.” And it was, to be fair – the hard anthracite shone in the pale light, facets naturally shiny. “Oi!” he yelled, noticing something. “Don't start a snowball fight without me!”

Of course, that's just what was being done; with one field denuded for little snowmen, it was time to invade the football pitch.

Aziraphale was hard on his heels, already looking forward to creating teams and of _course_ it would be him against Crowley; he still needed to get revenge after that time Crowley had dumped a snowball down his tunic in 1228.

Teams were not to be; instead it was an anarchic free-for-all, and the best Azirphale could manage was to corral a few kids (and a few friends) into helping him pelt Crowley with snowballs from several directions at once. Of course, about twenty seconds later they all turned on him and he was soon not so much an angel in the guise of a human, as a kind of snowman himself. He wore a sensible, long wool coat and a knit hat and thick woolly trousers, all of a rough texture that the snow clung to.

Crowley was laughing so hard he actually slipped and ate it himself, and had to be hauled to his feet by a lightly exasperated angel. Who immediately beaned him in the face, turned, and ran.

They denuded that field too, got breathless with laughter and the shock of repeated snowballs to the face. Crowley wound up with a toddler in his arms, a kind of shameless human shield, but she giggled and shrieked as he ran them through a little stand of trees. Aziraphale, snapping his fingers quietly, made the branches shake and gently snow down onto them.

Both Crowley and the smallest of the children began to shiver about the same time, the demon's lips even going a bit blue. They had been invited to go to a nearby cafe, and promised to meet back there – once they were in dry clothes, at least.

Aziraphale towed his shivering snake-demon home, cutting through the field of snowmen with one arm firmly around Crowley, who may have been slightly freezing to death, but was pretty cheerful about it, all told.

“They're sorta creepy, aren't they?” Crowley noted, as they turned onto the road that was, thankfully, just a short walk from their cottage.

“Well, like this, yes,” Aziraphale conceded. “Quite fun to make, though.”

“Yup,” Crowley agreed happily. He snuggled a little closer to Aziraphale. Sure he was shivering for real now, but a hot shower and dry clothes waited for him at home, followed by lovely hot coffee and slipping the kids some sweeties while he watched Aziraphale demolish pastries. Crowley didn't much like being cold – it was uncomfortable, and reminded him too much of Hell, or of winters spent not with his plump angel there to provide comfort – but it did make getting warm all the sweeter, even he had to admit.


	19. Angels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for blood and descriptions of violence

At least, they agreed later, it hadn't happened anywhere they needed to go back to. Crowley didn't have any kind of real attachment to his flat; just a few of the things in it, and of course Aziraphale could fetch those with a miracle. So there was that. He never had to go back, if he didn't want to.

They had returned to London for the holiday season. Their cottage was lovely, of course, but Crowley missed the bustle of everyone and their brother being annoyed at something, and the Tube had been running mysteriously smoothly lately. Aziraphale had a list of every cafe and bakery and little lunch place he missed, and they'd gone to a different Christmas Market every night for a week running. The holiday spirit was alive in them, in a specifically London way.

On this particular day, they parted ways – just for a few hours of course. Aziraphale wanted to visit the Natural History Museum because he did so like a good joke, and Crowley wanted to see to his flat. He'd removed all the plants to their place in the South Downs, of course, but there were a few knickknacks and things he wanted to keep an eye on. And, perhaps, a present or two for Aziraphale, though of course he'd never reveal that.

His spacious, echoing flat seemed even greyer and bigger and colder than he remembered as he let himself in, but little matter. On the occasions he and Aziraphale stayed there, a bottle of wine and some decent music warmed the space up, and there was nothing wrong with his _bed_ , thankfully. And the even rarer occasions when Crowley spent a day or a weekend there by himself – well, he usually wasn't in all that much, if he could help it.

He checked his mail, mostly out of morbid curiosity, and made sure his bed was still in good nick. Wouldn't do to have nowhere suitable to put up an angel for a night, and Aziraphale did, indeed, have standards. Satan only knew how Crowley had wound up _meeting_ those standards, but he had. Well, he wasn't going to argue, as long as he could adore and cuddle and spoil the angel to his heart's content in return.

That was funny.

Crowley paused and tasted the air. It didn't _taste_ like Aziraphale, nor smell like him. But it did. But it didn't. That could only mean –

“Oh, hi guys,” he said casually, as Gabriel and Sandalphon appeared, flanked by some anonymous but extremely muscle-bound angels. “Ooooh, extra Hemsworths! You shouldn't have, darlings, I'll have nowhere to put them.”

“What are you yammering on about?” Gabriel asked.

“That won't be a problem,” Sandalphon hissed. “We'll be going soon.”

“Awwww, no,” Crowley drawled, thinking fast. For fuck's _sake_. He'd put up wards against _demons_ , but never angels. Hadn't really expected that sort of thing. “You've got to stay. Have a drink! Have six drinks. Walk out of a window and do the universe a favour.”

“Heh. Heh heh,” Sandalphon grinned. “What a good idea. We'll have to implement that one.”

“You see, Crowley,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands. “The thing is. The thing _is_ – you're a demon. Sworn, hereditary enemy.”

“Never bothered you before,” Crowley said.

“Yes, but that was before you stained one of the heavenly host!”

“Oh, no, guys, total mistake, that time I spilled a glass of wine on Michael at the summer picnic,” Crowley yammered, thinking as fast as possible. This was going to end badly. Painfully. Shit. Shit shit shit, Aziraphale was going to lose his _mind_ if the angels discorporated Crowley. Or worse. You didn't bring a bunch of lunkheads to pour holy water on someone, though, so he thought that was was going to come would just be...very painful.

“Now, you _know_ that's not what this is about,” Gabriel said. “You may start, Sandalphon.”

The creepiest fucking angel in all the universe smiled, and sucker-punched Crowley good.

“Shit,” Crowley wheezed. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

“Punishment,” Gabriel said.

“Why not just holy water me away?” Crowley asked, and moaned when Sandalphon punched him again. This time catching him square on the side of the face, his sunglasses going flying. Fuck, that was going to leave a mark. “This is awfully...messy. Aziraphale loses his shit if he gets a grass-stain.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Gabriel said cheerfully. “We're not punishing you. We're punishing _him_. A disgrace to angel-kind, going around eating and hoarding books and pretending to be human. Even getting a lover. Disgusting. Well, I'll be off – don't much like violence, you know.”

“I do,” Sandalphon said helpfully, and punched Crowley again, giving him a matching black eye.

“Fuck you,” Crowley spat. “Aziraphale's the best of you. Nothing about him is disgusting.”

Sandalphon, it seemed, wasn't much of a talker. Well, at least Crowley wouldn't have to listen to him fucking _monologue_.

He tried to escape but – shit, it was like running into a wall. Something old and strong, maybe a step up from a salt circle, but with the same power to it. Crowley wasn't going anywhere, and the hits were coming too fast to even think of avoiding them.

He tried to not cry out, at least; to not give them the satisfaction. To bite and scratch, to not go quiet. When Sandalphon forced his wings into this plane, and one of the silent angels snapped the long, delicate bones, though, Crowley screamed, and felt ashamed. He kicked out, but someone had got a weapon, a baton or something, and it lit his leg up in agony.

Nothing that would kill him; only blunt instruments, but a cut opened on his forehead, and between his swollen face and the blood, he was essentially blinded.

Focus. _Focus_ , demon. You won't die from this, but Aziraphale will worry. He doesn't have the same sense you do, he can't tell when you're afraid, or hurt, or in need of rescuing...

Three things happened at once.

First, someone kicked Crowley's back, and a thing that shouldn't have done so went _crunch_ , with a wet and breaking sound. Second, Crowley screamed. And third, he let the pain guide him, sending up a flare for anyone who could see, but please, please, let Aziraphale notice. Let him know what's happening...

A fourth thing happened in very quick succession:

“I think we're just about done here,” Sandalphon said. “Plenty of blood. Try squirming to your angel with broken wings.” A happy sigh. “And other things. Well done, angels, very well done indeed.”

Crowley spat blood, and coughed, and tried to tell him to go fuck himself, but first the world ended. Or at least, it felt that way, as an angel crashed through the ceiling and landed in a pile of rubble on the floor.

Maybe it was best that he was effectively blind; Aziraphale in full angelic drag usually gave him a screaming headache, not to mention the sunburn. He could _feel_ the heat of him, knew the smell of him and taste of him in the air.

“How dare you.” Aziraphale's voice rang like bells. “How _dare_ you touch what is mine? How dare you come into his home and hurt him, the one I protect above all others.”

“Look at him,” Sandalphon sneered. “You did this to him.”

“You _literally have his blood on your clothes_ ,” Aziraphale shrieked. Oh, his voice was multiplying. His other heads must be showing up. Crowley was only a little sorry he couldn't see anything. He fought to stay awake; he wasn't missing this for the _world_.

“I am merely the instrument of God's teaching,” Sandalphon said. “You did this. It is your punishment.”

Crowley braced himself. Aziraphale did so tend to take on the weight of the world. To blame himself. Fucksake, he had only recently begun to really believe that he deserved to be loved. This was going to set him back months. Months of Crowley tenderly, patiently showing him love and kindness and encouraging him to enjoy Earth, and undoing all the bad of Heaven.

All right, so he'd probably do most of that stuff anyway. But still. This was _not_ something his love needed right now.

He groaned and tried to move, gasping when he jarred his definitely-broken leg. “Not your fault,” he managed to tell Aziraphale.

“I know _that_ ,” the angel said. “Lie down, Crowley, I'll take care of you in a moment. Now, where was I? Oh yes.”

There was a sound like a thousand wings. Ooooh, Aziraphale was going all out. Crowley was going to have weird dreams about eyes for _days._

“ _This is not my doing_

_Love is my doing_

_You hurt him_

_You carry his blood on you_

_The love we have isn't wrong_

_can never be wrong_

_and you can never know it_ ”

It was the most terrifying choir, it was a thousand voices singing together, Crowley could see eyes even though he couldn't see anything else, Aziraphale's full powers coming onto him, fanned by rage and sorrow.

“ _So_ fuck off _!”_

The sudden silence was as startling as the holy rage. Crowley knew it was just him and Aziraphale, and that Aziraphale was back to normal.

“Oh, my dearest.”

Crowley groaned, and wailed with sudden pain as he tried to roll over and fuck, no, no, his wings, his _wings_. And maybe his back? It was impossible to tell.

“Shh, shh, no, stay still. Stay still, my love.” Aziraphale's voice was familiar and low, and Crowley stayed still, whimpering.

“Can't see you,” he rasped.

“I know. Shhh. I can take care of the worst – be still, love. Be still, and trust me.”

Like Crowley _wouldn't_.

He was still and tried to be quiet as Aziraphale worked miracle after miracle, mending shattered bones, easing the worst of Crowley's injuries. The pain still lingered, though dulled – his body would take a bit to catch up, he knew.

A soft touch on his face, and the pain was gone.

“I can't heal it all,” Aziraphale said softly. “They did that on purpose. Those _bastards_. But I can take your pain, love. You won't feel anything at all. I'll help you heal as fast as I can, I promise.” Another gentle touch, and Crowley felt the kiss on his brow.

“S'okay,” he slurred, trying to catch up. His body was heavy, but there was no pain. None at all, and he took a careful deep breath.

“Shhh. Let's get you into bed.” Another kiss, and the shimmering feeling of a miracle and oh, it didn't matter that Crowley couldn't see anything, he'd know Aziraphale's big old bed above the shop anywhere. The way it smelled like books and tea, how _warm_ it was, Aziraphale must have lit a fire for them. Immediately, Crowley felt better.

“There you are, love.” A soft chuckle, and Azirpahale was stroking his chest. “You'll feel so much better quickly, I promise.” A kiss, small and tender. “Tell me anything you need, all right? Your tiniest desire is mine to fulfil. I'm sorry, Crowley. I'm so, so sorry they thought they could use you as a weapon against me.”

“Not your fault,” Crowley said firmly. “Hold me. Or let me hold you. Don't care which. Get in here with me, is what I'm saying.”

Aziraphale laughed, and slid under the covers, gathering Crowley tenderly into his arms. “I think I would like to hold you,” he said softly. “For a very long time, if you don't mind.”

Crowley smiled, face pressed against Aziraphale's chest. This was the only angel that mattered, as far as he was concerned. The only good one of the lot of them, and _Crowley_ had got him, all to himself. What kind of luck was that?

“Long as you want,” he sighed. His body was settling into itself – still sore and swollen; he wasn't sure he'd be able to put weight on his leg for a few hours, maybe a day, and of course his face was a mess – but so much better. Best of all with Aziraphale holding him and stroking his hair, promising all the fun they'd have together right here in bed while Crowley healed.

Crowley just listened, and rested, and felt distinctly that, no matter that he'd been beaten to a pulp, he'd still _won_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the next chapter is the sequel/end of the story!)


	20. Free Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to the previous chapter.

“Good morning, love. How do you feel?”

Aziraphale had greeted him like that every day since the angels had attacked and left him a bloody mess. A little angelic healing had taken care of the worst of things, but could only aide recovery afterwards. Crowley had stayed in bed for two solid days, and not for his usual reasons; he truly didn't have the strength to rise, and although Aziraphale blocked any hint of pain, he couldn't do much about stiffness and swelling and the bruises that miracles couldn't help with. Sandalphon had been so fucking clever, or at least he believed, setting it so that there were plenty of things that Aziraphale couldn't heal.

Which meant Crowley spent two solid days in bed being cosseted by an angel who had raised hedonism to the highest art form. He had pillows and bolsters and soft blankets supporting and warming him. He had cups of tea if he liked, and cocoa generously spiked with whiskey after lunch. He spent four contiguous perfect hours draped over Aziraphale's impossibly comforting soft tummy, while Aziraphale read fairy tales aloud to them both. Crowley had slept long hours through the night and woken to kisses. There were so many kisses, and cuddles, and quiet, gentle reminders of love. Anytime he liked, he could rest his head on Aziraphale's chest and listen to his heartbeat, and Aziraphale would comb his fingers through Crowley's hair and tell him a funny story. (Well, what the angel thought passed for a funny story, which wound up being funny in its own way.) And, once, he had noted aloud what an extremely effective demon Crowley must be, to get his ass kicked by _three_ angels. (Not in so many words, of course, but the sentiment was there.)

Whatever Sandalphon was doing, wherever he was, he was definitely not experiencing comfort and love and contentment the way Crowley was. Not even _close_.

On Christmas Eve, Crowley could half-open one eye, and celebrated by getting up and sitting in a chair by the fire. Walking was a careful thing, but one he could manage on his own, if he went slow. Once he'd settled and Aziraphale tucked a blanket around his legs and kissed him and exclaimed over how much better his face looked, and kissed him again, they settled in for a long-overdue conversation.

“You know that none of that was your fault, right?” Crowley asked, holding Aziraphale's hands in his. He couldn't really see his angel, but this would do for contact.

“I know,” Aziraphale promised him, and his voice warmed with a smile. “I'm smarter about them than I was.”

“Not smarter.” Words like _deprogramming_ and _abuse_ and _victim_ danced through Crowley's head, and he pushed them away. Not because they weren't true, but because thinking of those things in relation to a fussy angel who lived for puddings made something deep in his chest hurt. “Smart doesn't have anything to do with it, angel. You're just...more aware, now. Free.” He lifted a hand, careful not to touch Aziraphale with broken fingernails, and caressed his cheek. Sure there was a little fumbling, and Aziraphale had to guide his arm, but he got there in the end.

“I am, I suppose.” Aziraphale took his hand and kissed the fingertips, lingering on the nails, gently urging them to regrow with a miracle soft as an exhaled breath. “But I know that was...well, it was _bollocks_ , what Sandalphon was saying. You getting hurt is all on him. For goodness' sake, he had your blood on him! And the fault is on Gabriel, and whoever else arranged for this. Not on me.”

“See that you remember that,” Crowley said, and made sure that night that they were snuggled in close together, and Aziraphale was comfortable and comforted. Sure Crowley could still barely see him, and moving took careful thought and planning, but he was _there_ , and best the angel remember that.

When he woke on Christmas, Crowley could open both eyes, and thought it a very nice present to finally be able to see his sweetheart again. Aziraphale went a little overboard praising him, and telling him how lovely his eyes were and how he had missed seeing them, but it was Christmas, so Crowley could be indulgent. This wasn't what they had planned, it was fair to say, but they had a nice breakfast in bed and cuddled the day away, Aziraphale reading ghost stories aloud in between sips of egg nog.

And now, on the edge of the new year, he woke up and felt...fine. Good, perhaps, and he gave an experimental stretch. There was still a deep pull in his leg and his back, but those would fade by tomorrow, he reckoned, and he could smile and haul Aziraphale into his arms for kisses.

“All better,” he promised. “How do I look?”

“A little puffy,” Aziraphale admitted, touching one cheek. “But better. Much better.” His smile grew. “You're _healing_ love, finally.”

“'Course I am. Just took a few days.” Crowley bussed his cheek. “Let's go out for breakfast? To the patisserie. My treat.”

“Oh! Well. If you're quite sure you're up to it?” Aziraphale asked, definitely trying very hard to be a good friend and lover. He hadn't left the bedroom in days, and Crowley _knew_ he had intended to eat at far many more places than they'd got to. The chance to hit up one of his favourites...

“I'm fine. I promise.” Crowley sat up and swung his legs out of bed. Still bruised, a bit stiff, but he'd felt worse after a night of mixing drinks with funny names. A little stretch, a snap of his fingers, and he was all ready to go, holding his arm out to Aziraphale. “C'mon, angel. Before they run out of almond croissants.”

“Oh, they won't,” Aziraphale assured him, and winked. “Trust me.” Instead of slipping his hand into the crook of Crowley's arm, though, he wrapped his arms around the demon's waist and pulled him into a hug. “I do love you so.”

“I know,” Crowley said softly. “I love you too. Come on. We're both getting stir-crazy.”

“As you say,” Aziraphale said warmly, and finally took Crowley's arm, the two of them venturing out into London, fresh and hopeful on the cusp of a new year.


	21. New Year's Eve

When God was just getting started, there was no time. There was no _need_ for time, you see; all things were infinite and eternal. With no change in light or darkness or duties or seasons, there was no need to divide the infinite into measured periods. Why mark days, when there were no days?

There was past, present and future, of course. An angel would know that they _had_ done something, that they were _doing_ something and, at some point, that they _would_ do something. There wasn't a deadline; what did it matter when Heaven was eternal, and God existed, simultaneously, at all times and in all places?

The angel who would become Crowley, at this particular moment, was exploring. They made stars, and they would make more stars, but they needn't do so constantly, so they walked among the heavenly hosts, along something like paths in the firmament.

They paused on their journey to watch cherubim, brand-new and shining with the light that was particular to beings that had infinity before them, but who had not experienced very much as yet. These cherubim had only just been created, the angel guessed, and we being told what they were created for.

There were four of them. They had not been given any forms but their true ones. The angel that would become Crowley had their true form of course, but also one that God had made especially for them; practice, it was said, for new, finite beings that She was creating. So the angel walked on two legs and had two arms and looked broadly human. The way a Rembrandt sketch looks human; it is clear and perfect and makes your heart ache to look upon it. It _is_ human, without looking exactly like a human.

So the angel stole closer, curious, watching the four of them, placed each across from the other, quartering a circle. They were glorious, of course, all eyes of every hue and wings as well, spinning golden rings with the words of God scribed on them in flames.

The one nearest the angel was a riot of rainbow colours, and the angel would not, of course, ever enjoy one of God's creations over another, but they did feel really quite drawn to this one. The glorious colours, of course, but also –

Well. The angel wasn't sure _how_ , but the cherub was...nervous! Yes, that was the word for it! Somehow its wings were rubbing against one another in worry. Its eyes blinked a little more. Its rings came up to hide more eyes.

The angel reached out and wrapped their hand around the nearest wingtip.

_Hello, little one! Welcome. You are so welcome here._

_Oh! Hello. Am I? Everything is very new._

You're _very new,_ the angel told them, in the way of speaking that did not make vibrations in the nonexistent air. _Don't be frightened, darling one. We're all so happy you're here._

The cherub's wings relaxed. _Oh, are you? Good. I was afraid that. Well, that I wouldn't be good enough. Very silly, I know, God only makes perfection but...I do worry._

The angel reached out further, caressing the wing they held. It was a beautiful shining red, and it instantly became the angel's favourite colour. _You needn't worry, little one. You couldn't be anything other than perfect. Be at ease. I love you._ Because the angel found that they did. Not just in the way that they loved all of God's creations, but because this one – this one was different. Special. In need of protection, but also...sweet. Thinking of things no other being had ever thought of, and this attracted a curious angel the way nothing else ever had.

_Oh my! Love. Oh, what a wonderful word. I...I feel warm. Happy. Like I want to dance. Can I dance?_

The angel laughed.  _That's love, sweetheart. And yes, you can dance._

_Oh good. I love you too. Yes, that is definitely what I'm feeling. You're very kind._

The angel smiled and petted the wing. The cherub was relaxed now, eyes open and peering and curious.  _I'm nothing special._

_Yes, you are. For I love you, and you love me_ .

The angel just smiled, and stayed with the cherub until they had to part ways. They would not meet again until time had begun, and many other things with it.

In the waning days of the year, Aziraphale and Crowley decided that, after not having seen the sun for more than a few minutes for the last month, the south of England could, in so many words, go fuck itself.

Aziraphale found them an abandoned bit of rocky coastline at a latitude that was constantly, deliciously warm. Crowley made them a little vacation home that existed only in the space between where atoms spun; if you had been allowed to see them, you would have seen them only walking into and out of a cliff-face.

There was a ledge of sun-warmed stone, and a short drop into the sea; a kind of natural lido. One could lie on the stone and remember what summer felt like, or easily drop into the little pool and swim and splash and float.

Which was what Crowley was doing at just that moment. He had felt zero need to wear clothes, instead bathing every inch of his body in sunshine and sea. Aziraphale was willing to go into the sea quite naked, but insisted on a cover-up on land. Crowley would never argue with him – anything for his angel to feel comfortable and safe and happy in his body – but he wasn't above looking alluring and swimming over to the ledge to prop his arms up and beg Aziraphale to join him.

“It feels good, and you know it,” he said, and Aziraphale found he couldn't argue with that, so stripped off the shift he was wearing – about thigh-length, pale pink, and linen, so nothing really for Crowley to complain about in the looks department – and slipped into the sea.

He immediately dove and wrapped his arms around Crowley's waist, then standing with the demon slung over one shoulder.

“Oi!” Crowley splashed and wriggled and was just slippery enough that he could squirm out of Aziraphale's hold and go face-first into the ocean. He came up sputtering, meeting a grinning angel.

“You,” he accused.

“Me,” Aziraphale said, and kissed the tip of his nose. “Is it the new year, by the way?” They didn't much feel a need to mark the changing years; it wasn't like they were running out anytime soon. (Though they did conscientiously make lists of resolutions every year, and just as conscientiously ignored them throughout the coming twelve months.)

Crowley checked his watch (waterproof to 300 feet, told time in three cities of his choosing). “Only in New Zealand,” he reported.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and stretched out, floating happily atop the water. “That's nice.”

Crowley laid a hand on one thigh, appreciating the feast before him, and leaned over to kiss him softly. “You'll get a kiss at midnight, don't you worry, angel.”

“Yes, because I go lacking otherwise,” Aziraphale teased. He turned so his head bumped up against Crowley's tummy, and smiled up at him. “I love you, darling.”

“Love you too,” Crowley said, and tapped the tip of Aziraphale's nose, where it turned up just a bit. “Can you feel it?”

“Always.” Aziraphale closed his eyes and stretched, giving a happy little wriggle in the water. The sea here came up only to Crowley's waist, and was shallow enough that he could see the rocky bottom. No oysters, and more's the pity; he'd have to miracle some up later. And a long string of pearls for his love; they both greatly enjoyed the feeling of Crowley trailing a long pearl necklace along Aziraphale's body as the sun set. Nothing more than that, but the feel of it and the love and the affection was all they wanted.

“Darling? Do you remember heaven?” Aziraphale asked, some time later.

“A little. More sensations, than anything else. Why, angel?”

Aziraphale tipped himself in the water, and started to swim out deeper, Crowley coming with him of course. “Just curious, really. I suppose you wouldn't remember if we had met?” he asked wistfully. “I know you're older than I am. But we would have been there at the same time.”

They were out in waters deeper than they were tall, but the salt held their bodies, little wavelets sending them both bobbing in the warm blue sea.

“I don't remember, I'm sorry,” Crowley said.

“Well, it doesn't matter anyway,” Aziraphale said, and smiled. “I would have loved you, I know.”

Crowley laughed. “You're so sure!”

“I am. I can't imagine existing, and not loving you,” Aziraphale said simply, swimming over and getting his arms around Crowley.

Crowley did the same, their limbs tangling together, their bodies buoyant in the water. “I can't say much,” he said ruefully. “Went and fell in love about five seconds after meeting you, didn't I?”

Aziraphale giggled and kissed him. “Poor demon.” He kissed Crowley's jaw, and the side of his neck, his head resting on Crowley's shoulder, their bodies pressed together with nothing between them. “You have such patience, darling.”

“Hush,” Crowley said. This was dangerously close to Aziraphale blaming himself for his healthy fear, his protection, everything that came from Heaven treating him the way they did. And such things could be set aside for the moment, in Crowley's firm belief. “We have forever now, angel. Now snuggle up and enjoy the water.”

Aziraphale laughed, any tension flowing out of him. He did as Crowley scolded, happy in his demon's arms as the old year turned to the new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're done! Thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at dietruamerei.tumblr.com


End file.
